


Another Man's Treasure

by toastypaladin (toastycyborg)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Background Relationships, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), College Student Hunk (Voltron), College Student Lance (Voltron), Dating, Developing Relationship, Gay Keith (Voltron), Human Coran (Voltron), Hunk (Voltron) is a Good Friend, Keith & Shiro (Voltron) are Adoptive Siblings, Korean Keith (Voltron), Light-Hearted, M/M, Minor Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Minor Canonical Character(s), Musician Lance (Voltron), Nerdiness, POV Lance (Voltron), POV Third Person Limited, Past Tense, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Space Dad Shiro (Voltron), Swearing, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-12 15:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15342822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastycyborg/pseuds/toastypaladin
Summary: One thing about Lance: when he fell for someone, he fell hard and he fell fast. His crushes struck like thunderbolts, made his heart race and his insides tingle – and this Keith guy? Man, did he tick all the right boxes.Lance hates old things. Keith works in an antique store. Somehow, they're perfect for each other.(edited 30/9/18)





	1. One Man's Trash

**Author's Note:**

> _Voltron: Legendary Defender_ and all of its characters therein are property of Netflix and Dreamworks Animation. No copyright infringement is intended in this fanfiction.

 

Putting his feet on the dash was something Lance only did when he wanted people to  _know_ he was annoyed.

His legs were too long for it, if he was honest. Pointy knees up in the air, back bent in his seat at a spine-wrenching angle. Along with crossed arms, a bottom lip you could park a bus on, and a scowl darker than Mamá McClain’s ringlets, he was the picture of petty frustration.

From the driver seat, Hunk swatted a hand at where Lance’s high-tops were scuffing the dashboard. “C’mon, man, feet down,” he said, eyes on the road. “Don’t dirty up my truck. And sit straight – you’ll sprain something if we hit a pothole.”

Lance didn’t budge. “How’d you rope me into this?” he whined, melodramatic as always. “I need  _new_  guitar strings. Not gonna find those in an antique store.”

“We won’t stay long, I promise,” said Hunk, apologetic but firm. He flicked his indicator to make a turn, coasting through a green light and onto a nondescript avenue. “Pidge said they’ve got a huge library section. Bookshelves to the ceiling, Lance! Just a quick peek for cookbooks, then we’ll go get your strings and be back at the dorm in time for  _Deadliest Catch_. I’ll make you garlic tamales?”

Lance let out a long-suffering sigh, but lowered his legs. After almost three years of friendship, Hunk knew his every weakness.

He gazed out at the street, rocked by the motions of Hunk’s pickup. It was a nice truck, warm yellow paint and a heavy grille. Big and sturdy, like its owner, better legroom than his last car. Lance watched the world roll by outside, buildings stained gold in the glow of mid-November afternoon.

“It’s all junk, dude,” he said, apathetic. “Those places are full of old stuff nobody wants anymore. Broken dreams. They’re cramped, they smell – and think of the germs! God knows who’s touched what with grimy, diseased hands.”

A traffic light turned red ahead. Hunk eased his truck to a halt, and fired Lance an amused look. “Tell me how you really feel,” he said. “Jeez, man. What’ve you got against antiques?”

Lance plucked a stray fibre from the knee of his jeans. The fabric was getting threadbare. He’d need to replace them soon. “They’re trash,” he said.

The light turned green, and Hunk nudged his pickup into gear. It was an automatic, an odd choice that somehow suited its driver perfectly. “You know what they say,” he said, upbeat. “One man’s trash….”

Lance sank in his seat. For a moment he forgot himself, lapsed into his mother tongue from sheer exasperation. “ _¡Me resbala!_ ” he groaned. “I could not give less of a shit, dude.” 

Hunk raised a finger without taking his eyes off the road. " _Tu maletín_ ," he replied, one of the few Cuban phrases he knew.  _That’s your problem_  – literally, ‘your briefcase’. Hunk always remembered the weird ones.

Lance tossed up a hand, but said nothing more.

Two minutes later, they pulled up onto the curb outside their destination. Lance’s mood didn’t improve as he studied the storefront. Even the  _shop_  looked ancient, cracked white paint and cloudy windows. Through the glass, battered cabinets and displays of chipped crockery blocked any glimpse of the interior. Affixed to the brickwork above the door, brass letters spelled out _Coran’s Antique Emporium_.

Hunk cut off the engine, sat back, and gave Lance one of his wide, warm smiles. It was hard to stay grumpy when faced with such optimism. Lance unbuckled his seatbelt, resigned to get through this detour as fast as possible. This was not how he’d wanted to spend his Saturday.

“You never know,” offered Hunk, adjusting his bandana. “We could find a nice novelty clock for the kitchen wall. They might even have a guitar or two stashed away in there.”

Lance clutched the chest of his jacket, over his heart. “You monster,” he gasped. “You want me to ditch Blue for some knockoff Yamaha hand-me-down? Blasphemy.”

Hunk chuckled.

They left the vehicle, Lance bracing himself with a deep breath while Hunk locked up. Hunk rounded the truck and gave him a good-natured slap on the back – hard enough that Lance stumbled – then led his lanky roommate into the building.

The first thing Lance noticed was the smell. Dry, musty, moth-eaten fabric and too much furniture polish. Delightful.

The store was bigger than he’d assumed from outside. Shelves and dressers lined the papered walls, crammed with  _stuff_. Radios, lamps, picture frames and lockets, pottery and globes and ornaments. Much of the floor space had been claimed by tables, piled high with knickknacks, the dark green carpet worn thin. There was still space to move, however. Lance shuffled between the glass cabinets with a mounting sense of admiration, amazed that anybody could keep this sheer amount of garbage so organised.

Rooms branched off to either side of the main aisle, some down small inclines marked with warnings to watch the step. Lance peered in as he passed. These side areas appeared to hold more specialised things: cubicles for clothes, children’s toys, vinyl records. He was tempted to thumb through the latter, despite not owning any sort of device to play them on. Instead he stuck with Hunk, impressed by how gingerly the bigger man moved his weight between the delicate displays.

Hunk let out a soft “Oh!” when he spotted what he came for. Even Lance couldn’t help but whistle. Hunk’s friend Pidge had been right: the bookshelves were indeed stacked to the literal ceiling, a miniature library contained in a room to itself. The heady smell of glue and ink-stained paper hung thick enough to chew, the scent of finger-grease unmistakeable.

Lance grinned when Hunk bustled away, off to hunt down his precious cookbooks. This wasn’t so bad; he’d expected something like a hoarder’s house, floor buried in garbage. It was nice to see Hunk having fun, at least, pulling volumes off shelves to flip through their pages. He had this quiet intensity when engrossed in a good read, the smart sort of focus Lance envied when crunch-time came for exams.

Lance himself had never been big on reading. He absorbed information better when it was given to him in audio form, especially since English wasn’t his first language. Thank god for e-textbooks, and _SparkNotes_ on Audible.

Lance took a few minutes to browse, more from idle curiosity than anything. It didn’t take him long to realise that the antique store’s library wasn’t sorted into sections. He found fiction stuffed between biographies, and instructional journals mixed with classics. Either the shop’s employees sucked at the Dewey Decimal System, or they had a lot of careless customers. Lance considered skimming a copy of  _White Line Fever_ , but lost interest.

As he turned away, his gaze fell upon a display back in the main room. Another table, bowed under the weight of its wares. One curio in particular caught his attention, something upright and slender, agleam in the artificial light.

A dagger? Weird thing to find out in the open, he thought.

Lance approached. It was indeed a dagger, over a foot in length, complete with scabbard. The slight curved shape intrigued him, wooden sheath bound in engraved silver and polished to a chrome finish. It struck him as expensive,  _cool_.

Lance grinned. “Hey, come see this,” he called to his friend, who had yet to leave the mini-library. Lance took the weapon from its stand, flipped it over, then tugged the knife from its scabbard. It slid free easily, no rust to jam the fit. The blade shone in the dusty air, double-edged, thin as a razor and toned from age. Lance cooed. “Hunk, check it out!”

At his cry, Hunk emerged from the side room. No cookbooks to speak of, he wore a glum expression – which turned shocked when he saw Lance with the knife. “Whoa, man!” he hissed, rigid where he filled the doorway. Lance heard his breath catch. “Put that down, you’ll get us in trouble!”

Reluctant, Lance sheathed the dagger. “How sweet is it, though?” he said, all abuzz with awe. He gave the covered weapon a test swing, as he might a sword. “Wonder if it’s a movie prop. Maybe it’s a ceremonial blade, or something, like from when the Mayans used to sacrifice people on pyramids.”

As Hunk opened his mouth to correct him, Lance slipped into the sort of battle stance he’d seen a thousand times on Saturday morning cartoons. He made a forward stabbing motion – and was stopped short by a sudden hand around his wrist.

It wasn’t Hunk’s.

The hand belonged to a stranger. He’d all but materialised beside Lance, as if summoned by his antics, sporting long, scruffy black hair and a look of disapproval on his face. And  _what_  a face it was: pale skin, sharp jaw, arched brows and dark lashes. His features suggested some Asian heritage, grey eyes glinting almost purple in the weird lighting.

Lance froze. _Ay, dios mío._

His captor was about the youngest thing in the store, only a year or so older than Lance but not quite as tall. Built like an athlete, buff but still slim. He was dressed in black jeans and a grey T-shirt, a UFO printed on the latter, and boots that zipped up halfway to his calves.

The stranger seemed baffled by Lance’s daze, brow furrowing. With his free hand – fingerless gloves, were the Eighties back in fashion? – he plucked the knife from Lance’s grip and held it off to one side.

“This is a Wahabite Jambiya dagger,” he said, words snapping Lance from his stupor. Fuck, even this guy’s  _voice_ was attractive – a little nasal, low and husky at the edges. The stranger’s striking eyes narrowed, bored into Lance’s wide ones like shards of slate. “Don’t touch.”

Lance came to his senses.

He whipped his arm free as if burned, and reversed toward Hunk. Flustered, he massaged his wrist where that iron grip had dug into his skin. What the hell was someone so handsome doing in a place like this? Lance felt his ears heat up, hoped his lazy locks were thick enough to hide his flush. Hunk sidled up beside him, broad shoulders bunched like those of a scolded child.

The stranger turned away and set the dagger back on its stand. “The Wahabite is the largest jambiya, because the blade length is less curved than others,” he said. He didn’t glance back to the students, but squatted to inspect the knife as if it held the secrets of the universe. “This type of blade is called a ‘Sabak’ in Saudi Arabia, and a ‘Sebiki’ in Yemen. ‘Wahabite’ is a general name for the people of those nations. This one is over a century old, circa nineteen-hundred.”

Lance licked his lips, finding his tongue now that the initial stall of oh-my-god-hot had worn off. “Almost as old as your hairstyle, then?” he managed.

His rushed attempt at flirting rang a bit too loud in the quiet store, sounding more like a taunt than flattery. He was out of practice. The stranger sure interpreted it as an insult; he straightened up and pinned Lance with a frown, head tilted like a confused sparrow.

The sight made Lance’s insides squirm. _Smooth, McClain_. He did his best to backpedal, tried to reassure the stranger and cover his own cringe with one of his trademark smirks. This time, the guy raised an eyebrow. Lance wanted to melt into the floor: this dude and his reactions were adorable, and Lance was making a right ass of himself. If time machines were a thing, he’d absolutely steal one to rewind thirty seconds and un-fudge his first impression.

Before Lance implode from sheer embarrassment, Hunk stepped in. He rubbed at his neck, awkward. “Sorry, do you work here?”

The stranger pried his stare away from Lance, and sized up Hunk instead. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “I’m Keith. Can I help you guys with something?”

Hunk clapped his hands together once, cupped them in front of his barrel chest as if in prayer. “Cookbooks,” he said brightly. “For a paper, I’m exploring how cooking methods have changed over the years of culinary discoveries? I wanted to compare recipes from old books with modern ones, but I can’t figure out how everything’s laid out in that room–”

Keith raised a hand to cut him off, flinching as if sprayed with water. Once Hunk apologised for rambling, Keith scratched at his own cheek. “Yeah, my bad,” he muttered. “I was reorganising earlier. I'll grab some for you.”

Keith shot Lance another curious glance, then strode past him and into the library offshoot. Hunk followed the employee like an overgrown puppy, though not without also hiking his brow at Lance. Left alone in the main aisle, Lance took a moment to breathe and fix his hair before he joined them.

In the time it took Lance to compose himself, Keith had dragged a stepladder to one of the study's walls. He tucked an empty box under his arm and deftly climbed up, and half-filled the container with books from high shelves. Keith hopped down, handed the crate to Hunk, and flitted about the room to pull more hardbacks from lower cubby holes. Lance watched him from the doorway, entranced, unable to decipher his system. Keith then moved a mountain of old newspapers to reveal a chair in the corner, giving Hunk a space to sit down to sort through his options.

Lance stepped out of the doorway, but Keith didn’t leave. Instead, he climbed back up the ladder and began to reorder the upper shelves. Through it all, his face stayed blank – detached, even, unreadable.

Lance struggled not to crane his neck and appreciate the tightness of Keith’s jeans. He was a  _flirt_ , not a prude. He concentrated on the shelf right in front of him, stuffed to bursting with magazines. They were stacked sideways, too, slotted wherever they’d fit. Lance wondered if he should try and sort them, give Keith a hand. The guy had his work cut out for him. Keith didn’t answer, though, when Lance called up to offer his help, as if he’d already forgotten the customers were there. Was he shy, or just aloof?

Several minutes later, Lance pinched the bridge of his knows where he knelt beside Hunk’s box. Hunk had started two piles on the floor: cookbooks he could use, and ones irrelevant to his project. The first pile was far taller.

“Listen, man,” said Lance, defeated. “There’s not space in our dorm for all of this. Can’t we go to a library or something, borrow them just until you’ve finished your paper?”

Hunk gave him a wounded look, wedged in the small chair. “But, there’s so much here I wanna make,” he said. Lance stifled a snigger, peripherally aware of Keith descending the ladder again. Hunk sat forward, and grabbed the topmost volume from the ‘yes’ pile. “This one –  _Tapas: the Little Dishes of Spain_ , from nineteen eighty-seven. Garlic shrimp, bite-sized meatballs, marinades–”

“ _I_  can teach you to make that stuff,” said Lance, arms crossed. He grumbled. “Besides, there aren’t even any pictures. How are you supposed to know if you’re doing it right?”

From across the room, Keith spoke up. “You’ll be fine if you follow the instructions,” he said. “That’s what they’re for, right?”

Lance couldn't help but smile in response, having thought Keith too introverted to eavesdrop. He twisted to the haggard employee; Keith’s broad back was to him and Hunk, arms full of books. Lance saw this as a chance to extend an olive branch. “So, another genius in the kitchen,” he said, good-humoured. He jabbed a playful thumb at Hunk, who’d once more gotten lost in his books. “This guy’s majoring in culinary arts, Mullet. How about you?”

Keith’s shoulders sagged in a sigh. “Some of us want to avoid debt, by working before we go to college,” he said. “Sorry to intrude on your pivotal discussion.”

Lance laughed, breathy and light. This guy was way too serious. “I’m just playing, dude,” he said. “Hey, you wanna take a break and sit with us? You can help spare the wallets of two college kids already drowning in debt.”

Keith turned around, then. He was a touch pink in the cheeks, but his expression showed interest in Lance’s offer. His arms, however, were still laden with heavy encyclopaedias. Lance gulped. He’d failed to notice the width of Keith’s biceps until now, flexed taut from the weight.

Lance didn’t have chance to admire. One corner of Keith’s mouth hitched up in the tiniest of smirks, and his stance grew cocky. “Technically,” he said, “my job is to encourage you to buy things, so….”

Keith’s smile was challenging. It creased his eyes, poked dimples into his smooth cheeks, lit a fire in Lance's gut. The moment passed and Keith refocused on his task without another word, and Lance had to remind himself how to blink.

Wow.

A meme popped into his head, brain corrupted by too much time on Tumblr.  _I saw a man so beautiful I started crying?_  Lance managed not to shed tears – a close call – but in that moment, he fully grasped what the original poster had meant. He tried to ground himself, to think and slow the fuck down before he was swept away by a face he’d likely never see again.

Hunk suddenly squealed beside him, performing a seated tap-dance in place. “Ooh, Lance, look!” he said. “An original recipe for British scones!”

Lance struggled to focus on the page Hunk held out to him. He couldn’t process the words written there, insides weightless as his cartwheeling heart tossed them through zero-G. “That’s neat, man.”

Hunk’s grin shrank, concerned while he read Lance’s expression. Once he twigged, Hunk gave a knowing hum. The sound snapped Lance from his daze, and he sat back with a cough. His long legs complained at the movement, laced with pins and needles where they’d been folded beneath him.

From over his shoulder, Lance heard what sounded like half a tree being dumped on the carpet. He rotated to find Keith crouched, now, staring right at him, the encyclopaedias set down. Keith’s stare was one of realisation, a baby-faced wonder that cemented him firm in Lance’s mental ‘cute’ category.

“Lance,” Keith repeated the name. “Lance McClain, right? From YouTube.”

Lance gawped. The shock of recognition knocked his budding crush out of the water, if only for a minute. “You know my music?”

Keith ducked his head, and picked at a scuff on his boot. “I’ve heard a few songs,” he said. “I try to support local artists. You … you sound different when you sing.”

Hot under his clothes, Lance wasn’t quite sure how to take that. Good ‘different’, or bad ‘different’? When he failed to respond, Hunk nudged him with a foot. Lance gave a start, and glanced up in time to catch Hunk’s encouraging nod. Lance stammered. “Th-thank you?”

Keith sat down properly, cross-legged on the floor. He laid his hands on the heels of his boots, spine hunched. “I haven’t seen an update in a while,” he said, expression intense. He rolled one shoulder in what Lance guessed was meant to be nonchalance. The movement looked forced, as if he didn’t use body language much. “Are you still writing songs?”

Awkward, Lance ran a hand through his short hair. “Yeah, sure,” he said. A white lie. “Things’ve just been crazy for a while, is all. Class, y’know? And I, well … I’ve not had much inspiration.”

Keith continued to stare at him, lips rolled inward in thought, unblinking for many seconds. At last, he jerked his chin toward the open doorway. “You should come see this.”

He was already out of the room by the time Lance scrambled upright. Lance paused, seeking advice from Hunk. The larger man gave him a double thumbs-up, grin enthusiastic, and returned to his cookbooks. With that blessing, Lance tripped over his own feet in his haste to follow Keith out of the library.

Keith led him to the back of the store, into another branching room between a forest of grandfather clocks and a staircase to the second floor. For one ecstatic beat of his heart, Lance thought Keith was taking him somewhere private to make out. He had a long way to go until he reached  _that_  level of Internet fame. The room Keith brought him to was a fantastic compromise, though, and when he stepped in, Lance’s jaw damn near hit his kneecaps.

String instruments hung from the walls like pheasants in a hunter’s hut, pieces of musical history from all around the world. Banjos, lutes, ornate harps, mandolins, even a zither, and the  _guitars_. Gibsons, Fenders, G &L, a Rickenbacker … Lance had to steady himself on a nearby piano. The smell alone made him dizzy with joy, polished wood and oil and the delicate metal of strings. Drums in all shapes and sizes filled one corner like a miniature army, amps and speakers crowded in another. The more expensive instruments stood locked in glass cases, and Lance itched to touch every single one of them.

“Oh my god,” he said, fighting to keep his Spanish inside. He didn’t like to express it around people he didn’t know. “I’m dead. I’m dead, and this is heaven.”

Not even the warble of Keith’s short laugh could pierce his euphoria. “Do you need a minute?”

Lance shook himself sober. “I might,” he said, deadpan. “Do you accept payment in the form of undying love and gratitude?”

Keith crossed his arms, head cocked. Lance memorised what the motion did to the waves of his hair, the way his fringe fell in his face like an adolescent’s. Keith inhaled, aura mischievous. “Post another music video, and I’ll think about it.”

The crystal-sharp tone of a bell carried through the shop. At once, Keith’s whole body wilted. Lance  _saw_  the life drain out of him, snorted as his neck went slack and he turned begrudgingly to the door.

A new voice rang out from upstairs, male with a New Zealand twang. “Keith, my boy, can you get that?!”

“Got it!” Keith yelled at the ceiling. He jogged out into the main room – then stuck his shaggy head back inside the music space, distracted in afterthought. He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Lance McClain.”

He was gone before Lance could even wave goodbye.

 

* * *

 

Over an hour later, Lance buckled himself into the passenger seat of Hunk’s truck. They’d long missed _Deadliest Catch_ , but he didn’t care one bit.

Their roles had flipped since that morning. Now _Lance_ was the one who didn’t want to leave, besotted with the music room and everything in it. It was the tenth wonder of the world, as far as he was concerned. Hunk had to drag him off the premises by the sleeve of his jacket, and Lance whined every step of the way.

He didn’t leave empty-handed, though. He’d fished meticulously through a bowl of plectrums, and found a steely-purple one that reminded him of Keith’s eyes. That was worth more to Lance than any Gibson, despite its age and grimy fingerprints.

A different person had served him at the counter, a middle-aged man with red hair and an impressive moustache. Coran, the owner of the store and the New Zealand voice. Lance had of course been disappointed not to have the pleasure of Keith’s company at the till – but he wasn’t so petty that he went and put the plectrum back.

While Hunk crammed his stack of ancient cookbooks into the back seat, Lance flipped his own tiny purchase along the backs of his fingers. He was quiet, thoughtful, in a world of his own. He almost didn’t notice when Hunk climbed in and started the truck, and rolled down the window to get a pleasant breeze on his dark skin.

“D’you think he was into me?” Lance asked, out of the blue.

Hunk shot him a sidelong frown during a break in the traffic. “Who?”

Lance rolled the plectrum into his palm, squeezed it, and sat up. “Keith.”

To his surprise, Hunk belted out a laugh. “Whoa there, partner,” he said. “Calm your skinny bisexual ass. You literally _just_ met the guy. You don’t even know if he swings that way.”

Lance squinted. “Did you not see his hair?”

Hunk’s mirth faded, overtaken by confusion as he signalled to switch lanes.

“The mullet?” Lance probed, incredulous. He twisted against his seatbelt to address his roommate square-on. “Dave Davies, David Bowie, Pete Townshend, Lou Reed … Hunk? Hunk, please. It’s very important to me that you know who those people are.”

Hunk tipped back his head in thought, hands steady on the wheel. “I’ve heard of Bowie,” he said. “He was in that weird movie, right? _Lab Rat_?”

Lance groaned. “ _Labyrinth_ ,” he corrected, and melted into a slouch. “But, my point. Aside from being incredible musicians, those people either are all gay or bisexual icons with mullets.”

Hunk _oh_ -ed in response, though most of his attention stayed on the road. More vehicles filled the tarmac than on their trip up to the antique store, sunset drawing to a close as rush hour approached. Lance shook his head at Hunk’s disastrous knowledge of pop culture, and draped his empty hand out of the window to comb the wind.

“If Keith’s straight,” he said, “I’ll wear my underwear on my head and scream  _As the World Falls Down_ from the rooftops.”

As they ground to a halt at a red light, Hunk eyed his roommate with alarm. “The scary thing is,” he said, “I know you’re not joking.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _¡Me resbala!_ \- I don't care!
> 
> • Lance and Hunk are both 21 years old, in their third year of college ("university" to a Brit like me). Lance studies marine science, and Hunk culinary arts. Lance moved to America for college, living in Cuba until then. Keith is 22.  
> • Lance and Keith know way more about music and knives respectively than I do. It was disconcerting to write.  
> • Pidge likely won't feature in-person in this fic, beyond being mentioned as Hunk's Friend. I love her but can't think of a way to neatly include her, without making things too crowded.  
> • A stickler for detail, I spent over an hour researching real US college semesters to get my timeline straight. Reasons why will unfold later in the story.
> 
> As always, feedback is very much appreciated! :3
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastypaladin.tumblr.com/)


	2. Slow and Steady

 

One thing about Lance: when he fell for someone, he fell hard and he fell fast. His crushes struck like thunderbolts, made his heart race and his insides tingle – and this Keith guy? Man, did he tick all the right boxes.

Also like thunderbolts, though, Lance’s usual crushes didn’t last. They’d split the sky then disappear, brilliant and bright for one short moment until the next strike knocked him down again. A cute guy asking for directions at a bus stop, a shy girl pausing to let him pet her dog on the street. Lance couldn’t help it: he was a romantic. A dreamer, easily infatuated, driftwood pulled this way and that by the tides of fancy.

At least, that’s how it used to be.

Over a week had passed since he and Hunk visited the antique store, and Lance still found himself distracted by thoughts of Keith.

Whenever he closed his eyes, those sharp grey ones blinked back at him. Quick, intelligent, focused. Lance couldn’t get over their purplish glint – a trick of the light in the dull-lit shop, but captivating all the same. In quiet spells he caught echoes of that little laugh, would shiver each time he remembered the shape of his own name in Keith’s rough voice.

Other attractive people had caught his attention since that day, but Keith’s pretty face just kept coming back to him. He’d never been this taken with a stranger. This was _real_ infatuation, Lance thought, not some fruitless puppy love. And, from the way Keith had returned his playful banter … Lance suspected he wasn’t the only one interested.

Call him an optimist, but he thought he’d read something in Keith’s parting smile. Something wistful, kismet, an unspoken wish to meet again. On the other hand, Lance could’ve been projecting his own desires onto the guy. God, he hoped not. He _swore_ he’d sensed a spark between himself and Keith, in the shop, and ten days later he still got giddy at the thought of pursuing it. It wasn’t a strict physical attraction, either; he’d been struck by how smart Keith was, so much knowledge of history crammed into his head. His insight in guiding Lance to the music room, and genuine warmth at the joy Lance found there. The way he’d returned Lance’s light teasing with a playful one-liner, wry sarcasm accompanied by that little smirk. He seemed like a fun dude beneath the surface awkwardness, and Lance sincerely wanted to get to know him.

Problem was, he didn’t have a cover excuse to hang out. If he showed up at the emporium and didn’t buy anything, his motives would be too obvious. He’d look desperate. Unless….

 _Post another music video, and I’ll think about it_.

If he went to deliver good news, a second visit wouldn’t be weird – right?

Lance sat perched atop his unmade bed, in his and Hunk’s shared dorm, one leg crossed beneath himself and the other slung off the edge of the mattress. He wore a vest and boxers and nothing else, hair wet from his midday shower. In his arms, he cradled Blue – the glossy acoustic Davis he’d bought when he was sixteen.

He’d chosen and named the guitar for her colour. Vivid cobalt, the colour of Neptune, with dark sides and a silver rosette. Rosewood and mahogany, a spruce top and asymmetrical neck. Beautiful.

It had been a while since he last held her. She’d gathered an impressive layer of dust in the wardrobe, neglected and out-of-tune. He’d felt bad as he cleaned her up and finally replaced her strings, but what could he do? College had been hectic for months, seminars and field trips and lab work. Senior-Lance hadn’t thought marine science would involve so much … well, _science_. The subject fascinated him, sure, but he missed when studying didn’t leave him mentally exhausted. Music was a hobby that took focus – and these days, all he wanted to do after class was switch off his surviving brain cells and play _Call of Duty_.

Still, no use for regret now. He was three years too deep in debt to flunk out and make YouTube his full-time job.

Lance strummed Blue idly, nonsense chords as he stared at the curtained window across the room. The notes brought life to the quiet space, as colourful as the forest of post-its slapped on the wardrobe doors. His mind was elsewhere, absent while muscle memory steered his long fingers over the frets.

 _Post another music video_ , _and I’ll think about it_.

Lance hadn’t agreed to anything, but impressing a boy was a damn good motivator. He wanted to _wow_ Keith, astound him with a tune that knocked Lance’s old music out of the water. If he wrote something fresh, he’d have a real excuse to return to the antique shop. Plus, if a new track on iTunes made him an extra buck or two – hey. No complaints here.

Alas, whatever musical talent Lance once possessed seemed to have left him.

He couldn’t think of a good riff, let alone decent lyrics. Evidence of this failure surrounded him: crumpled sheets of paper littered the crumb-flecked mattress and shabby carpet, his hands stained with sharpie. He couldn’t remember if he’d had breakfast, so absorbed in writing, trenches in his hair from where he’d raked stressed-out fingers through the locks.

With a sigh, Lance lessened his grip of Blue and sat back. His shoulder blades bunched against the wall, the old paint cool on his steam-flushed skin. “Nice, McClain,” he muttered to himself. “Twenty-one years old, and you’ve washed up already. Great job.”

From beyond the bedroom door, Lance heard a sequence of familiar noises. Jangling keys, creaky hinges, the scuff of boots on their ratty welcome mat. Hunk, home from class.

Lance slid his folded leg free and sat up. He himself wasn’t due in college until later that afternoon, hence the shower. The thought of a lecture on shallow-water habitats didn’t excite him: he’d much rather stay in, and work on his reason to see Keith again. Professor Montgomery would _not_ be pleased if he ditched, though. The fake-stomachache excuse was wearing thin.

Glum, Lance listened while Hunk made his usual beeline to their tiny kitchen unit. Over the judder of glass bottles that marked the opening of the fridge, he formed a random chord on Blue’s neck and strummed once.

G-major.

The rich note lifted his spirits. It was a _happy_ sound, like the colour yellow, upbeat and warm. Lance began to play in earnest, then, digits kissing the fingerboard in a pattern he’d long memorised. One of his old songs, melody inspired by Slightly Stoopid’s _Closer to the Sun_. He thumped a beat into the carpet with his bare heel, lyrics falling from his lips as if never forgotten.

“ _Razzle dazzle, baby, let’s set the stage alight … eyes bright, all right, outfit skin-tight – let’s stop the world tonight.”_

A quiet knock at the door, and Hunk nudged his way into the room. Lance stopped singing but continued to thumb the strings, glancing up at his housemate. Hunk chuckled at the sight, chilled lemonade in hand. Lance breathed deep as his best friend passed: Tuesdays were practical kitchen sessions, and Hunk always smelled delicious afterward. Today it was a blend of spices, stone-baked bread, and something zesty. Hunk didn’t voice a greeting, charmed by the lush guitar notes as he shuffled to his side of the room.

Where Lance’s bed took up the southeast corner, its foot by the door, Hunk’s claimed the northwest. Both pieces of furniture were raised, singles with storage space underneath. Lance’s was messier, ocean-print sheets tangled and strewn while Hunk’s white spread resembled a glossy hotel ad.

This contrast could be seen in everything the two young men owned. Worn clothes and dog-eared notebooks swamped Lance’s bedside cabinet, skincare products afloat in the jumble. Hunk’s dresser, meanwhile, was neat, sporting several coasters and a charging station for his phone and laptop. The table between it and the wardrobe was also spotless, home to the desktop PC Hunk had built with Pidge a few years back. The machine seldom saw use these days, only booted up when Lance needed its video-editing software or webcam for Skype with his family.

Still wordless, Hunk set his drink down on one of the coasters and sank into the computer chair. He basked in the music a while, indifferent to Lance’s state of dress. They’d known each other too long for embarrassment over sitting in underwear. It wasn’t like Lance felt shame over his noodle limbs, at any rate.  _Esqueleto rumbero_ , Papá called him – a dancing skeleton. Hunk’s were tree trunks in comparison.

As Hunk watched Lance’s hands, lithe and agile over the strings, something occurred to the larger man. He frowned. “Didn’t you buy a plectrum, the other day?”

Lance shrug-nodded, rhythm steady.

To be honest, he didn’t like using plectrums. The sound was too sharp for his tastes. It felt more intimate to work the strings with his bare skin – even if it hurt a little, calluses softened by a lack of practice. He’d only grabbed the pick because he’d hoped Keith would serve him at the register … and because of its colour. He was sentimental, enough that the triangular slip of plastic now lived in his wallet with the battered photo of his family.

“So,” said Hunk, optimism incarnate. “How goes song-writing?”

Lance’s fingers slowed, then stopped altogether, his mood headed downhill despite Hunk’s cheer. The silence that followed rang loud in the cramped bedroom, expressive enough that Lance didn’t need to answer with words.

He did anyway. “I got nothing, dude,” he said, and slumped against the wall. His still-damp skin clung to the paint, made him judder on his descent. “Squat, zilch, _nada_. My brain is useless.”

Hunk’s broad bulk softened. “Nah, that’s not true,” he said gently. There was a smudge of flour on his cargo pants, a souvenir from class. He sat forward in the creaky chair, large hands clasped between his knees. “When’d you last take a break? You’ve been stressing over this for days. I’ll make you a nice bay leaf tea, yeah? Just chill until class, get an early night, and come back to it tomorrow. You’ve gotta rest your mind to keep up the creativity.”

Lips pursed, Lance dragged a thumbnail up one of Blue’s strings. It drew a harsh sound out of her, like cutlery scraping fine china. “‘Keep up’?” he repeated. “Hunk – there’s not a creative cell left in me. Three years of listening to Montgomery drone about evolution and ecophysiology has sucked the soul from my body. I’m more rusty than my childhood pushbike.”

At that, Hunk sniggered. “That analogy seemed pretty creative to me, man.”

Lance cracked a smirk. He knew he sounded pitiful, but that was the point. Exaggerating always made Hunk chortle, which perked him up in turn.

While Hunk reached for a swig of his lemonade, Lance laid his guitar flat on the bedspread. He gave her a tender pat, stood up, and stretched as tall as he could. He felt immense relief at the deep pop of vertebrae, could almost brush the ceiling with his fingertips.

Hunk returned his drink to its coaster, smacking his tongue at the tang. “Give yourself some credit, _acere_ ,” he said. “Come on, how bad could it be?”

Lance dropped to his soles in time to watch his roommate double forward in the chair. For a confused second, he thought Hunk was about to hurl – but then realised he was reaching aside, for one of the many crumpled pages that littered the floor. _Oh no_. Lance jerked forward. “Wait, don’t read that–!”

With blood in his ears from bending down, Hunk didn’t hear him. He grabbed the closest scrunched-up leaf of paper, shook it out, and squinted at the spidery words scrawled there. Lance hovered in fear but tore away once Hunk’s thick brows began to climb his forehead, self-conscious of his failed work.

“‘ _Amethyst_ ’?” Hunk read the title aloud. The grin that split his wide jaw was slanted, full of fun, and his voice took on a teasing edge. “Oh wow, yeah … you’re really grasping at straws if it’s come to _Steven Universe_ fan-songs.”

Lance snatched the page off him. “That’s not what it is!” he said. He crushed the sheet into a ball and lobbed it out of the bedroom, through the door Hunk had left open and into the hall. Lance then crossed his arms, flustered, and faced his friend again with shoulders squared. “If you must know, it was supposed to be about Keith’s eyes. It’s cheesy as shit, which is why I told you _not to read it_.”

Hunk blinked. “Keith …” he said, puzzled. “Wait … the guy from the antique store? I knew you were into somebody, but, huh. Did not expect that.”

Not paying full attention, Lance toed a thin patch of carpet. Its fibres were so frayed that he felt the chill of wood below, smooth and hard. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s why I can’t take a break. Until I come up with a new song, I can’t go back and see him.”

Hunk took up his glass again. “That’s a weird visiting condition.”

Lance hooked a hand around his neck, sighed, and flopped down onto his own bed. He let the stiff springs bounce him and Blue both, chest tight. “I can’t do it, Hunk,” he said. “I can’t think of anything. Like … I’ve got bits and pieces, but it’s not enough. I wanna stroll in there and be all, _hey_ , check out this whole beautiful thing I wrote for you. Half a chorus won’t impress anybody.”

When he got no response, Lance propped himself up on his elbows. Hunk hadn’t moved, hadn’t sipped his lemonade – but was staring at his scrawny friend with a kind, warm air. Lance scowled, shifted so that his vest wasn’t quite so taut where he lay.

“What?”

Hunk shook his head. “You’ve met him _once_ ,” he said, “and already you’re writing songs for him in which you compare his eyes to jewels. You are such a sap.”

Lance sagged back into the mattress, and heaved out a breath. “I’m a hardcore romantic, dude,” he said. “It’s in my blood. Sue me.”

There was a guffaw from across the room, but Lance didn’t address it. Instead, he gazed up at the map of the Caribbean he’d tacked to the ceiling above his pillow. Most of it was hidden behind photos of his vast family. Only the north of Cuba went uncovered, a drawing pin in the narrow peninsula where he’d grown up and lived until moving to America. It made him proud to think how fast he’d mastered the local accent, only fragments of Varadero slipping out when he was mad or drunk. He’d studied hard to fit in, trained his speech patterns and pronunciation alongside actual schoolwork. Skin tone notwithstanding, most folks on the street wouldn’t peg him as a foreigner.

He heard a creak and a low groan, and shadows shifted over the wall on his left. Lance rolled his head to find Hunk now upright, gulping down the last of his lemonade. With the drink drained, Hunk wiped his mouth and drummed a finger on the empty glass in thought.

“It’s your grandma’s birthday soon, right?” he said, free hand on his hip.

Lance’s brow furrowed. “Yeah…?” he said. In truth, he wasn’t sure – but he trusted Hunk’s memory with dates. ‘Late November’ was about as specific as Lance knew without checking a calendar.

Hunk met his confused stare with a beaming smile, the sort of eager enthusiasm that marked a strike of brilliance. “Why not go see if there’s anything she might like in that shop?” he offered. “Old folks like antiques, in my experience. Nostalgia. I saw some nice bracelets when we were there for cookbooks.”

Lance stared at him, processing. If he had a purchase in mind … he sat up, thoughts rushed. His lecture didn’t start until three-thirty, and Hunk usually got home around one. That left more than enough time to drop in on Keith _today_ , song or no song. When the idea clicked, Lance sprang up so fast that his vision fuzzed at the edges.

“Hunk, you’re a genius!”

As Lance leaped across the room to tear open the wardrobe doors, Hunk chuckled to himself. “Dry your hair, lover-boy,” he said, “it’s cold out. I’ll make lunch while you’re doing that, and if you finish yours, I’ll even give you a lift downtown in my truck.”

Arms laden with clean jeans and a sweater, Lance trampled the crushed notebook pages as he strode to Hunk’s side. ‘Lover-boy’, eh? In retaliation for the nickname – before Hunk could block him – Lance planted a loud, sloppy kiss to his roommate’s cheek. “ _Thanks_ , sweetheart!”

Hunk shoved him off with a laugh. “Go get dressed!”

 

* * *

 

 

Less than half an hour later, Lance stood on the curb outside _Coran’s Antique Emporium_.

Hunk was right; the weather had cooled significantly since the week before last. Thanksgiving was only a few days away, the winter chill enough that Lance wished he’d dug out his scarf. His usual jacket didn’t quite cut it. He toed his sneakers to the hard concrete, throat dry as he held a staring contest with the store’s cloudy doorknob.

A contest he was winning, of course.

He’d brought Blue, packed safe in her padded bag on his back. She might improve his image, he’d thought. Carrying his guitar around made him look like a real musician, right? He squeezed the shoulder strap with uncharacteristic nervousness, rooted to the spot where Hunk had left him almost two full minutes ago.

He didn’t know how he should greet his crush. Jolly? Casual? Indifferent? Come to think of it, he didn’t even know if Keith was working today. Man, it would suck if he only did weekends. Did antique store assistants have regular hours?

Lance swallowed hard, gave himself a mental shake as he shivered. _Focus, buddy, you got this._ He blamed his butterflies on indigestion, from scarfing down his sandwich too fast in his haste to set out. Yeah, that was it. The cramps were just gas. What else could they be – anxiety, over flirting with a cute guy?

Ha, as if!

With a steely breath, Lance smoothed down his hair and opened the door.

The store hadn’t changed. Same musty smell, same dull lighting, same aisles of tables and cabinets piled with junk. Some of the displays were a bit different, he thought, purchased trinkets replaced by ‘new’ ones on various shelves. He started forward, ducked to avoid a low-hanging wind chime that hadn’t been there last visit. No sign of Keith at first, but hope lingered in the side rooms and upper floor Lance had yet to explore. Where did they even get all this stuff?

No-one stood at the messy counter, no other customers in sight.

It felt like walking onto a movie set, the spooky magic shop near the start of that Nicolas Cage Disney movie. Or a haunted house – the home of a hoarder, who’d died in some terrible accident. Most of this junk sure looked old enough to be haunted. The thought chilled him, but he gave himself another shake. _C’mon, Lancey-Lance, you’re braver than this!_ He walked faster, pushed out his chest and gripped his backpack’s strap tight.

“I ain’t afraid of no ghosts,” he muttered under his breath.

As he passed the counter, Lance noticed an open jotter and pen beside the bell customers rang for attention. For a beat, he considered scrawling his number in a note to Keith and bolting. This place was ten times creepier without Hunk’s mellow presence for moral support.

Before he could wimp out, Lance spotted that unmistakable mullet and stopped dead.

Keith crouched over a crate of aged oil paintings, near the back of the shop, flicking intently through the canvasses. Similar artworks filled the wall in front of him, calm landscapes and still-life fruit bowls. Lance gulped. Keith himself was the real masterpiece here, fanny pack aside. He was a vision in black and grey, unkempt hair falling _just-so_ , and shirt pulled taut over the slope of his back. Even from here, Lance could smell his body spray – a spicy citrus beacon in the stale, fusty air of the store.

 _Ay_ , he was smitten.

Giddy from a weird mix of eagerness and stage fright, Lance approached. Keith hadn’t noticed him yet. He stopped a short distance from where his unaware crush continued to browse the paintings, stomach knotted. He wanted to make a good first – well, _second_ – impression. Lance fiddled with the hem of his jacket, pondered the best way to greet him.

A simple ‘hello’ had never been so difficult. He felt like a teenager again, swooning over Jenny Shaybon in freshman drama club.

While Lance dithered, Keith pulled a truly ugly painting of a horse from the crate. No taste in art, then.

Keith stood and raised the canvas to an open space on the wall, and held it there to check it didn’t clash with the surrounding pieces. Once satisfied, he hooked the frame onto a free peg and let it hang. He then stepped back, rolled a crick from his neck, and stooped to collect the wooden box off the floor.

He started walking before he’d even straightened up – and strode headlong into Lance.

Keith leaped a foot off the ground when they collided, the crate clutched to his chest like a shield. His reaction frightened Lance in turn: Lance flinched away with a squeak – and backed right into a table. The thud of his thighs on its edge sent piled-up knickknacks tumbling, wares knocked loudly to the carpet. Both men froze under the other’s wide-eyed stare, breathless while an upturned metal dish rattled to stillness between their feet.

In the dead silence that followed, Keith recovered first. “Christ, don’t _do_ that!” he gasped, knuckles white where he squeezed the crate. “Don’t fu- … don’t just stand there like a creep!”

Lance couldn’t help it. He snorted, covered his treacherous mouth and flapped a hand in apology. “Sorry, sorry,” he managed through snickers. He composed himself as best he could, the nerves shocked right out of him. “My bad, dude. You okay?”

Keith’s broad shoulders unclenched, and he lowered the box enough for Lance to see the symbol on his shirt. It was a _Zelda_ tee today, the gold crest of Hyrule emblazoned on his chest. Keith shook his head. “I’m fine,” he grit out. He didn’t look it, features pinched as if mad he’d been caught by such surprise.

In a fluster, Keith strode past Lance and ducked into one of the side rooms. Lance followed him to its entrance, but didn’t go in. Through the doorway, he watched Keith dump the crate of paintings onto a mound of similar boxes. This must’ve been the ‘miscellaneous’ area, where they stored excess stock that wouldn’t fit anywhere else.

Lance leaned against the doorframe. Scaring the shit out of each other was one way to break the ice. “So,” he said, turning on the charm as his pulse slowed. “Am I just lucky, or do you work here every day?”

Keith faced him, clapping dust from his hands as he levelled a flat stare at Lance. “Most days,” he replied. Like in their first meeting, the flirtation flew clean over his head. Either that, or he kicked ass at poker. Keith’s gaze then shifted, focused on a point behind Lance. “Is that your guitar?”

Lance glanced back, at the black nylon of the padded case that rose over his shoulder. In the excitement, despite her weight, he’d almost forgotten he was carrying her. “Sure is,” he said. He conjured a sly smile, and jabbed a thumb at Blue’s clothed neck. “I’m working on something new. Gotta say, it’s going _great_. I like to take her out when we’ve struck proverbial gold, y’know? Let her see the world – fresh air and such.”

Keith made a sceptical noise, and at once Lance felt bad for lying. Before he could explain himself, though, Keith was on the move again. He shimmied past the taller man to return to the main room, and made a beeline for the display Lance had bumped. Keith sank in a crouch beside it, and began to collect the fallen curios from the floor.

Awkward, Lance joined him. He felt too big for the cramped space, all sharp knees and pointy elbows as he and Keith crowded together to tidy the mess. Keith didn’t speak, but tucked his long hair behind his ears while they worked.

“Okay, I lied,” said Lance. He sat back on his heels, clutched the brass pocket watch in his hands like a lifeline. “I’ve _started_ a song. It’s … not great. And I don’t take my guitar out for walks. That’s dumb. Honestly, I’m scared to death the bag’s gonna rip and she’ll shatter on the ground.”

Keith glanced up, then, met Lance’s worried gaze around a stray lock of fringe. He held the contact, a slight curve to his thin lips. “You’re nicer when you’re not trying to show off,” he said.

Lance faltered … and relaxed. Hunk had said similar things in the past, though his wording was usually closer to _don’t be a dick, Lance_.

So, Keith thought he was nice?

“You’re good at what you do,” Keith went on, quiet voice tinged with something like envy. He dropped his stare, and reached to retrieve a blue-white Chinese saucer from under the table. Lance would’ve been glad nothing had broken, if he weren’t so caught up in Keith’s words. “Your songs are all great, so I’m sure the new one will be good too, when it’s finished.”

Lance wasn’t sure how to handle such faith and praise. Keith’s tone held nothing but honesty. Lance ducked his head, flustered and touched and overjoyed all at once.

Ignorant to the effect of his words, it seemed, Keith plucked the pocket watch – the last dropped relic – from Lance’s grip, and climbed to his feet. Lance hurried to follow suit, watched him set the mishmash of items back in their spaces on the table. Lance stammered out an apology for his carelessness, and floundered to keep talking.

“S-so, uh,” he flailed. Unbidden, but very welcome, Hunk’s suggestion popped into his head. The idea boosted his confidence, and Lance cleared his throat. “I actually came here to ask your help with something, if you’ve got time.”

Keith tipped his head. “Oh?”

Lance drew himself up. “It’s my _abuelita_ ’s birthday soon, and she loves stuff like this,” he said. He gestured aside, addressing the store in general. “I’m not too into antiques myself, so I was hoping you could help me pick out something nice for her.”

To his great delight, Keith’s features softened. “You’re Spanish?”

It took Lance a moment to figure out how he’d come to that conclusion. He was fumbling through his sentences so fast, he couldn’t remember the last upon starting another. “Cuban,” he said, dismissive. Specifics weren’t important right now, but he rather enjoyed correcting Keith. 

Something dubious wrinkled Keith’s brow. “‘Lance McClain’ doesn’t sound very Cuban,” he said, then winced at his own indiscretion. “No offence.”

Lance shrugged. “That’s because it’s not,” he said. “Most folks can’t pronounce my real name, so I picked a nickname when I moved here. _Lance_ after Texas guitar-slinger Lance Lopez – and _McClain_ after Marlon McClain of Dazz Band, who helped revive funk music in the Nineties.”

Keith blinked at him, a hint of an impressed smile at one corner of his mouth. Lance rubbed at his cheek, abruptly self-conscious. Most people pressed the subject, and then butchered his real name when he divulged it. Keith’s respect of his privacy was a nice change.

“So … can you help me?” said Lance. “I don’t know where else to turn.”

Keith gave a start, and dug one forefinger into his opposite elbow. “I can try,” he said. He started forward. “Does your grandma like jewellery?”

Lance perked up. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “The gaudier, the better.”

For the next hour, they put their heads together to find an appropriate gift for Lance’s grandmother. Lance lost track of time, but enjoyed every second of it. They considered earrings, lockets, bracelets, mantelpiece ornaments, even a basket of novelty brooches. Keith knew a _lot_ , explaining the history of fine metalwork with such verve that even Lance didn’t get bored. He was an auditory learner, after all, and Keith’s was a fine voice to have his ear.

Eventually, they settled on a necklace. It was definitely gaudy, a three-tier string of plastic beads like lumps of jade. Not too expensive, Lance was relieved to find. Keith served him at the counter, cursing under his breath when the cash register’s drawer got stuck. Lance stifled his giggles while Keith wrestled with the machine, and applauded his victory on cue.

Pocketing his purchase and change, Lance felt a flare of bravery. It was a dumb idea, presumptuous, but … if Keith said yes? He licked his lips, and decided to dive in before second thoughts could get in the way.

“Hey, I know this is sudden and we barely know each other,” he said, “but … you wouldn’t happen to be free on Thanksgiving, would you? Hunk – my roommate – he’s an awesome cook, but he always makes way too much for the two of us. Every year, we’re eating leftovers for days. If you wanted, you’re welcome to join us.”

Keith’s face fell. He stood static behind the counter, one gloved hand on the open till, motionless to the point where Lance thought he’d stopped breathing. Lance flashed a grin to try and prompt a response. It did the trick: Keith gave a start and tore his gaze away, shut the till with a _snap_ , and tore Lance’s receipt from its slot.

“Sorry, I can’t,” he said, downcast. It was like he’d forgotten how to make eye-contact, and that was a real shame. “I’m having dinner with my brother at his fiancé’s house. Appreciate the offer, though.”

Lance noted his glum tone. Casual, he poked at a dangerous-looking hair clasp on the edge of the counter. “Sounds like you don’t really want to go.”

Keith sighed. “I don’t mind,” he said, toying with the receipt. “I just … Adam’s not _my_ fiancé, you know? I’m an adult. I can stay home and cook for myself without burning the house down, thank you very much.”

Exasperation voiced, Keith held out Lance’s receipt. Lance took it, stuffed the slip of paper into his pocket without inspection. “Adam, huh?” he said, intrigued. “Your brother’s gay?”

At once, Keith went on the defensive. He crossed his arms tight, pinned Lance with a heated glare. “Yeah,” he said, “and so am I. What about it?”

 _‘So am I’_?

The statement blindsided Lance, a head-on collision of relief and amusement at Keith’s sheer _vehemence_. A snort burst from his mouth. Laughing was an inappropriate response, he knew – one that clearly caught Keith off-guard. Keith’s glare cooled to a baffled frown, squared shoulders flagging. Lance pulled himself together, shook his head in apology, and laid a palm on the counter with a winning smile.

“Chill out, buddy,” he said. “No judgement here – I bat for both teams.”

Keith didn’t seem to understand the euphemism at first. “Both…?” he said. His eyes then widened, and his arms fell slack by his sides. “Oh. _Oh_. That’s good.”

Lance blinked, not trusting himself to speak.

He _saw_ the exact moment Keith realised the awkwardness of his own words. Colour bloomed high on the shorter man’s cheekbones, and not even the thicket of his long hair was dense enough to hide it. Flustered, Keith ducked his head and fled from behind the counter. He strode away, across the main room, to a glass cabinet of hand-painted plates. Heat radiating from his cringing frame, he pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and busied himself with the lock.

Lance tailed him, at a more respectful distance than earlier. If  _he_  were that embarrassed, he’d want space. All the same, curiosity got the better of Lance and he dared to push his luck. “So, your brother’s getting married,” he said. He adjusted the strap of his rucksack, sore where Blue’s straps had begun to bite into him. “That’s cool. Anything like that in your future? If it’s not too personal a question, I mean.”

Keith didn’t turn, quiet as he opened the cabinet. From his fanny pack, he produced a soft towel. He took the largest plate from the middle shelf, and wiped away its dust with the cloth. “That’s a _very_ personal question,” he said. “But … no. I’ve never been in a relationship.”

Careful, Lance hummed. Keith’s openness was promising, as was the positive – if socially inept – reaction to Lance’s sexuality. He tapped one heel on the dark carpet, weighing potential follow-up questions that wouldn’t press too far.

He didn’t expect Keith to speak first. “You?”

Lance buried his hands in his jacket pockets, warming the smooth beads of the necklace in his palm. “There’s this one guy I want to ask out,” he admitted. “But, I’m kinda, what’s the word … apprehensive.”

Keith set down his polished plate, but hesitated before taking up another. In the pause, Lance found his reflection in the glass cabinet’s door. Keith’s expression was subtle and strange, something torn between hope and sadness. “Why?”

Lance shrugged again, uncomfortable. “My past relationships haven’t exactly been ‘long term’,” he admitted. Keith seemed to prefer sincerity, so … full disclosure. “I’m no expert, but, I think romance _sticks_ when it’s based in friendship. If I’m gonna ask this guy out … I want us to get to know each other, first. I’ve got a good feeling about him.”

From the planes of glass, Lance caught a glimpse of that little smile. Keith then drew himself up, set his cool mask back in place, and turned around. Lance pretended not to have noticed, kept his own expression passive yet friendly.

“Do you have a phone?” said Keith, with that now-familiar intensity.

Lance faltered. “Um, yeah…?”

Keith stuck out a gloved hand, palm-up. A wordless demand. Half-convinced he was dreaming, Lance fished his cell from his jeans pocket and passed it to Keith. He didn’t have any dodgy pictures saved, that he could remember. Keith unlocked the device with a swipe of his finger, and – without asking or explanation – pulled up Lance’s list of contacts.

After some rapid tapping, Keith thrust the phone back at its owner. “There,” he said. “Now you can check in advance if I’m on shift. Let me know how it goes with that guy.”

Incredulous, Lance took back his phone. Sure enough, Keith had added himself as a contact. Lance frowned at the number. One half of his brain was ecstatic – he didn’t even have to ask! – while the other worried Keith had missed his paper-thin insinuations on who ‘this guy’ was.

Keith’s smirk reassured him that he had, in fact, understood, and Lance thumbed the _call_ icon to also give Keith his number.

A loud ring tone filled the stuffy antique store, and Keith went dead-still where he stood. It took Lance a second to realise why – and when he did, his jaw dropped. The tune, muffled through the denim of Keith’s jeans, was very familiar, rich guitar notes and a cheerful voice.  _His_ voice.

“ _Razzle dazzle, baby, let’s set the stage alight_ –”

Spluttering, Keith scrambled for his phone. Lance could only stare, dumbstruck, as Keith tore the thing free – an ancient red flip, good god what a dork – and rejected the call with a jab of his thumb. The ensuing silence was both horrific and hilarious, nothing to distract Lance from how Keith’s face was now the same shade of scarlet as his cell.

“It’s a good song, all right?!” Keith shot, faster than Lance could open his mouth to tease. “It’s got a strong, loud intro that’s really rare for acoustic music!”

Smug with pride, while Keith smouldered, Lance changed his new contact entry from a generic ‘ _Keith_ ’ to ‘ _Keith the Fanboy_ ’.

Sounds of creaking stairs met their ears, and Lance turned in time to watch the store’s owner descend from the upper floor. Summoned by the music and shouting, no doubt. The old man – Coran, if the store’s name was to be believed – brightened upon spotting their customer, and hurried over while tweaking his moustache.

“Hello, welcome!” he cried, in that lively accent. He was dressed in blue and white, ginger hair slicked back, clothes neat and collar high. From his excitement, Lance sensed this place didn’t see many clients. “Are you looking for anything in particular, my boy? We’ve a large range of trinkets and accoutrements to suit your fancy!”

Keith seized this chance to duck back into the open cabinet. Fighting down laughter, Lance pulled out his purchased necklace. He gave it a shake, beads jangling against his wrist. “I’m good, thanks.”

Coran faltered. His calculating gaze flicked from Lance’s grin to the still-flushed Keith, who seemed to be making himself as small as possible where he dusted plates. The bushy moustache twitched, and Coran leaned back with a knowing glint in his eye.

“Well, all right,” he said. “Thank you very much for your business. If there’s anything else, you’re welcome back anytime.”

Lance planned to take him up on that. “Cool,” he said. He stuffed his phone and purchase away, and fixed the strap of Blue’s case with a cough. “Well, I should head to class. Thanks for the help, Keith. Mr. Coran, sir.”

He fled before things could get awkward.

All in all, he’d call the trip a success. He owed Hunk a new blender, or something. Maybe antiques weren’t so bad, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Acere_ \- Cuban slang for 'friend'.
> 
> • In this AU, Hunk and Pidge lived on the same street as kids. Pidge is still two years younger than Hunk (19), in her first year of college for computer science.  
> • I headcanon that Lance sometimes kisses his close friends as a joke. He's very confident in his sexuality and masculinity. Plus, I imagine Hunk's cheeks are nice and plush.  
> • The idea of 'Lance' being a nickname from when he moved to the US appeals to me. I'm told foreign students often go by Americanised nicknames around friends and classmates. When will we learn Lance's real name? Who knows! (Though let's be honest, it's probably gonna be 'Leandro'. I like it a lot, and it means 'Lion'.)  
> • Next chapter, Shiro!
> 
> As always, feedback is very much appreciated! What's your favourite part so far? Are there any scenes you'd like to see? Leave a comment and let me know! :3
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastypaladin.tumblr.com/)


	3. A Bird in the Hand

 

On Thanksgiving, Hunk cooked for at least six people.

The standard turkey, with a spicy twist. Green bean casserole, mac-and-cheese, potatoes – both roasted and mashed, since he and Lance had different tastes. Tureens of gravy, bowls of peas and carrots and corn. The ingredients were basic, discount off-brands, but Hunk knew how to make them taste _good_. He outdid himself for dessert, too, buckeye cookies and crustless pumpkin pie. The dorm’s kitchen counter barely had space for it all, a ‘serve yourself’ sort of arrangement. Lance still wasn’t used to such a spread; Thanksgiving was not a holiday he’d celebrated back home, and Cubans weren’t big on turkey either. Roast pork was the go-to for special occasions. All the same, he was happy to embrace traditions that let him devour Hunk’s beautiful cooking.

To help get through as much of the food as possible, Hunk invited some friends to join them. Pidge was first call, of course, since her brother and parents lived out-of-state. Hunk also invited a quiet girl named Shay – a classmate whose family was spending the holiday in California.

Any other day, Lance would’ve joked about how both of Hunk’s guests were girls. As it turned out, he was too busy messaging Keith to even notice what he was eating.

They’d swapped texts every day since their second encounter. For all his awkwardness, Keith turned out to be a pretty funny guy – just as Lance predicted. They traded memes and idle banter, good-natured insults that ended in wink emojis. On the second day, Lance dared to snap a picture of his exhausted self surrounded by college papers. He captioned it, _This is what a soon-to-be dead man looks like_.

Keith replied, _Are you sure?_ – followed by a picture of himself and a desk of antiques plastered in ink, where a fountain pen had exploded in his hands. His skin was corpse-white behind the stains, mortified. Lance sent Keith his condolences, though only after saving the image as Keith’s contact photo.

That wasn’t weird, right? Why would Keith have shared the snap, if he didn’t want Lance to look at it? Not wanting to seem like a creep, Lance fired him a quick text to ask for permission. Keith answered with a casual _sure, just no dick pics_ _pls_. They shared a laugh about it, and Lance breathed a sigh of relief. Keith’s was a brilliant selfie, and Lance got the feeling he didn’t take them often.

Halfway through Thanksgiving dinner, Keith sent him another one.

He was dressed to the nines, in some classy dining room, a modest spread of food on the table behind him. Ever competitive, and prone to acting on impulse, Lance replied with a selfie of his own. He made sure to catch the loaded plate in his lap, with the caption: _You could’ve eaten like a king!_

As soon as he sent it, Lance felt a stab of inferiority. His polo shirt was nowhere near as formal as Keith’s maroon button-up, and he’d forgotten to comb his hair. The couch on which he sat was clearly visible in the picture, too. He and Hunk didn’t have a dining room, but ate off trays like the penniless savages they were.

Keith’s reply, though? _You clean up nice._

Lance melted as he texted back. _Said the pot to the kettle, Mr. Fanny Pack._

Seconds later, a response.  _Fuck you, they’re useful._

From the arm of the couch, a sly Pidge asked the reason for his dumb grin. Lance stuffed his face with potatoes and told her to shove off. Shay giggled.

That night, while waiting for sleep to claim him, Lance lay with his phone propped up on his bedside cabinet. It displayed the newest picture of Keith, fullscreen for Lance to study as he nursed his aching food baby. Keith cleaned up nice himself, he thought. Red was a good colour on him. There was no-one else in the photo, neither Keith’s brother nor their fiancé. The thought of him sneaking into the dining room to take a selfie was adorable, made Lance sigh and smile into his pillow.

When Hunk’s dry snores reached his ears, Lance turned off his cell and rolled away. He cuddled his oversized shark plush and nestled down, so very grateful he’d tagged along to the antique store.

 

* * *

 

Lance had a love-hate relationship with Black Friday.

He cherished a good bargain as much as the next guy. Sales were where he got most of his clothes, as a low-income student, and he’d yet to replace the jeans whose knees were wearing thin. Lance had also learned from an email subscription that his favourite exfoliating scrub would be dirt-cheap today, but had limited stock. He couldn’t miss it.

The downside? Crowds. The crazies came out in force this time of year, swarming the streets in pushy mobs.

Hunk gave Lance a list of essentials and he took a bus downtown, and braved the supermarket with sharp elbows bared.

It was chaos. Screaming children, aggressive deal-hunters, dumb opportunists trying to stuff boxed TVs into shopping carts. A particularly loud mother of two rammed into Lance with her trolley at one point, bruising his hamstrings. She bustled off without a word of apology, and Lance wanted to yell for her to watch her step. He bit his tongue, knowing it would only cause trouble. Why did so few people understood how to use deodorant?

_Think of the scrub, think of the scrub._

The skincare aisle was his first stop. He managed to snag a few bottles before the shelves ran empty, and picked up a half-price towel turban for good measure. Mission complete, he turned his attention to Hunk’s list. A non-melted spatula, new batteries for the kitchen scale, toilet roll … nothing special. Lance made his rounds and grabbed what he could find, only pausing to help an elderly woman reach a tub of pretzels from a high shelf. Just because some shoppers lost their minds and forgot manners, didn’t mean everybody should.

The instant he reached the end of his list, Lance raced to the checkout line. He made no fuss, and thanked the ragged cashier with gusto as he paid. Her answering smile was genuine, almost tearful with gratitude. God bless retail workers, the true heroes of Black Friday.

Once outside, almost bowled over by floods of noisy people, Lance thought he’d treat himself for surviving. Rucksack heavy, he made his way up the mall to his favourite bakery. He bought himself a peppermint brownie, and a boxed éclair for Hunk. The big dude was stuck at home, cleaning yesterday’s mountain of dirty pans and dishes. Lance didn’t envy him. Feeling accomplished, he perched on a café bench to snack and rest his feet.

While he ate, Lance spotted a little mom-and-pop retro videogame store across the way.

It seemed out of place, sandwiched between a handbag boutique and a nail salon. A month ago, the establishment likely wouldn’t have caught his attention. After his recent and extended trips to an antique shop, however … well, he could see the appeal. He popped the last bite of brownie into his mouth and stood, curious enough to check it out.

The shop was small and dully lit inside, cramped by glass towers of chunky game carts and second-hand consoles. He’d grown familiar with this kind of layout. A handful of people crowded the main room, guys and girls alike, dressed in geeky sweaters and shoulder bags. Trendy pop music pulsed from a radio Lance couldn’t see, mindless beats and synth.

Lance browsed the displays at leisure, tonguing chocolate from his teeth. He recognised most of this stuff – still owned copies of many of the games on display, back at his parents’ house. Mamá never threw anything away. Itchy with nostalgia, he paused beside a dusty shelf sporting a loud yellow _SALE_ placard.

Centre-stage on the ledge, in pride of place, was a familiar games console. A slim grey brick of a machine, with a wide slot on top and two round-edged controllers. When he recognised what it was, Lance’s eyes went wide.

A Super Nintendo, mint condition, perched atop its original box.

The child in Lance gasped. How much of his youth had he lost to one of these? He let out a whistle, leaned in to inspect the machine. There wasn’t a mark on it, no visible scuffs or scratches on the controllers. It didn’t even smell musty. Its previous owner must’ve been a collector, or something.

Like a poke in the skull, he remembered Keith’s _Zelda_ shirt. Keith would get a kick out of this, for sure. With a furtive glance at the lady behind the counter, Lance pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the SNES. He sent it to his favourite mullet-headed nerd, with the caption: _Check out what I found._

Less than ten seconds later, Lance’s cell vibrated in his hand. He tore his homesick gaze from the ancient console to read Keith’s reply – and froze. The phone continued to buzz in his shocked palm, his crush’s covered-in-ink selfie filling its screen.

It wasn’t a text. Keith was calling him.

 _Keith was calling him_.

Lance panicked. They hadn’t talked over the phone yet, and not even the funny caller ID could make him forget that. What should he say? What could _Keith_ want to say, that he couldn’t express in text? Crap, had Lance messed up somehow? Mind blank, thick tongue still tasting of cocoa and peppermint, he raised the device to his ear and answered.

“H-hello?”

“Buy it.”

Keith’s firm tone threw the already shaken Lance for another loop. He gaped at the colourful shelf display, unable to process the number on the console’s price tag. “What?”

“The SNES,” Keith’s voice prodded his gridlocked thoughts. “Mine died years ago. I’ll give you the money back, so buy it before someone else does. Please.”

Lance took a moment to process the request. It sounded more like demand, if he were honest. He recovered enough to slant his lips, and set a fist on his hip. “You know they released a new one, right?” he said. “The Classic Edition, with _Star Fox 2_? And – hey, what am I, your errand boy?”

Another customer sidled around Lance. He stood his ground, glared her down to dissuade any interest in the old Nintendo system. The young woman hurried off as if scorched, muttering under her breath.

Keith’s sigh crackled in his ear. “You’re already right there,” was the exasperated response. “I’d pick it up myself, but I’m in work until seven and it’ll be gone by then. You can bring it by whenever it suits you.”

In the background, Lance heard other voices: the twang of Coran’s accent, and an unfamiliar local one. Huh, the antique store actually had a legitimate patron? Wow. Black Friday brought out all the weirdos, indeed.

Keith spoke again, hesitant. “Are you still there?”

Lance gave a start, spirits lifted as he stepped away from the shelf. He approached the shop’s counter, unsure if he was allowed to take items from the displays. “I’m here, he said, playful. “Guess I was just expecting a ‘hello’ back, is all.”

There was a pause. “Oh,” came Keith’s mumble. He wasn’t good at social stuff, at all. What kind of caveman didn’t start a conversation with a greeting? “Sorry. Um … hello, Lance.”

At the sound of his own name in that rough-edged voice, Lance’s insides liquefied. He stopped short of the counter, his next words shaped by a natural smile. “Hi, Keith.”

Another pause, longer than the first – and then a sharp bleep stabbed his eardrum, making him flinch. Keith had hung up on him. Lance lowered his cell with a chuckle. No goodbye, either. They’d have to work on his phone etiquette.

He hailed the storekeeper warmly – to prove a point, despite how Keith had no way of hearing him – and pointed to the shelf. “Can I get the SNES, please?”

The old console cost more than Lance would’ve liked, even with Black Friday discounts. He had to dip into his savings to afford it, but Keith said he was good for the money and Lance trusted him. Lance stowed his purchase safe in his rucksack, careful not to crush Hunk’s éclair, then left the store and headed straight to the antique shop.

It wasn’t too big of a detour. Well, even if it were … Lance wouldn’t have minded. Rather than catch another bus from the mall, he walked to preserve the little cash he had left. The weather was kind, at least, cold but clear. Brisk. Man, it’d be Christmas soon – another holiday celebrated differently here than what he’d grown up with. He’d never seen a real Christmas tree before moving to America, fairy lights only strung up in touristy hotels and eateries. The change in temperature was the one thing Lance didn’t like about the festivities: he’d need to dig out his scarf and gloves before much longer.

As he arrived at the emporium, it made Lance strangely happy to hold the door for a customer on their way out. Traffic meant the place wouldn’t go out of business in the immediate future, which in turn meant Keith wouldn’t vanish from his life. Lance sauntered in and ducked under the low wind chime, already smug with his hands in his pockets.

He spotted Keith serving a senior citizen at the register. Mullet-boy was serious as always, unblinking while he told the woman how to properly clean the bracelet she’d bought. Lance fought the urge to pull tongues at him from behind her back. Nah, that’d be cruel. Maybe later.

Keith fumbled his words upon noticing Lance. Today’s grey T-shirt featured a cartoon alien, framed by the phrase ‘ _humans aren’t real_ ’. Lance swallowed his amusement. Cool as his shirts were, Keith’s wardrobe could use a splash of colour.

Once the woman took her purchase and left, Lance strolled forward. Keith all but vaulted over the counter to meet him, his expression the most excited Lance had seen so far.

“Did you bring it?”

Lance clapped a palm over his heart, as if wounded. “And here I thought you were happy to see _me_ ,” he said. “Hello, by the by.”

Keith rolled his eyes in a long-suffering way. Lance snickered, and shrugged out of his rucksack. Keith held its base to help him unearth his precious cargo, then took the glossy black box from Lance with childlike wonder. He simply stood there, holding the packaged console like he might the Holy Grail, awed by its slight weight while Lance zipped up his bag. The smell of aged electronics floated between them, invigorating.

When Keith snapped from his daze, his gaze was bright. “Let’s go in the back.”

Somehow, Lance held in a dirty comment. He let Keith lead him to the rear of the shop, to the side room where he’d dumped the crate of paintings a few days ago. They passed Coran on the way; the old man called after them, smartly reminding Keith that he was paid by the hour.

Keith didn’t stop, as if deaf to his boss’s words.

He dropped to his knees in the private area, and gently set the SNES box down on the floor. Animated, he motioned for Lance to join him. Lance settled cross-legged on the bristly carpet, his grin a mile wide. It was like watching a shy child react to a puppy for the first time. Keith slid his fingers into the cardboard seams with utmost care, and lifted the lid to expose the relic of gaming within. In silence, he sat back on his heels to admire.

Lance sniggered. “It’s not the Ark of the Covenant, dude.”

The sound brought Keith to the present. He tucked his hair behind his ears, vibrating with nostalgia. “Think of the revolutionary titles this thing must’ve seen,” he said. “ _A Link to the Past_ , the original _Super Metroid_ , _Paladin’s Quest_ ….”

Lance drew up his long legs, hugged them to rock on his rump. “Don’t forget _F-Zero_ ,” he added. “ _Cybernator_ , _Gundam Wing: Endless Duel_?”

Keith thumbed one of the cardboard tabs, melancholic. “ _Earthbound_ ….”

Lance beamed at him. He didn’t know many people outside of Internet forums who’d played that cult classic. And from Keith’s tone, he suspected the title held a special place in his heart. Lance’s insides did a little somersault at that thought, abuzz and tingly and _dios mío this guy was wonderful_.

He struck a pose, and quoted one of his favourite lines from the game. “Prepare to face my Super-Ultra-Mambo-Tango-Foxtrot martial arts!”

The look that tongue-twister earned him was nothing short of star-struck. Then, Keith laughed. It was different to the quiet sounds Lance had coaxed from him thus far, bubbly and somehow brash. Lance joined in, loud and carefree, and scooted closer in the cosy room to touch the box.

“I left my SNES at my mamá’s house,” he said, wistful again. “Forgot it. I brought some games to the dorm, though, and an adaptor cart to bypass region-locking. I can bring them up next time I see you, if you want? Might have something you wanna play.”

Surprise replaced Keith’s soft joy. “For real?” he said, almost whispered. “I … you’d really trust me with something so valuable?”

Lance huffed as if snubbed. “You’re a huge nerd who takes care of old shit for a job,” he said. “So, yeah, I think I’d trust you with my childhood games. That’s not weird. Is it?”

Keith rubbed at his cheek with the heel of a gloved hand. “Guess not,” he said. He flinched in recollection. “Ah – how much do I owe you?”

Oh, yeah. Lance fished the receipt from his wallet, dropping it in his haste. Keith scanned the slip of paper with focus, and knelt up to dig through his jeans for his own wallet. It was much nicer than Lance’s, smooth black leather and _fat_. Holy crap, this job must’ve paid better than Lance assumed. Keith pulled a wad of cash from the folds and counted it twice, then handed the notes to Lance with an earnest thank-you.

Lance couldn’t recall the last time he’d held this much physical money. He’d used his debit card in the shop. He opened his mouth to joke about getting a part-time job here – but was distracted by a sudden shift in Keith’s expression. The shorter man scrambled upright before Lance could ask what was wrong, staring at something behind Lance with such shock that the student got a chill down his spine.

Lance twisted to follow his gaze, and found they were no longer alone.

A tall man in his mid-thirties leaned in the doorway. Well-built, dressed in black, hair styled in a dark crew cut with a longer tuft of white at the front. A wicked scar cut across the bridge of his nose, marring an otherwise kind face. One of his folded arms looked _off_ , somehow, the skin of his hand matte and rubber-looking where it protruded from his winter coat.

Lance recognised him from campus. He was an astrophysics tutor, Professor Shirogane.

To his astonishment, Keith also knew their eavesdropper. His reaction was more animated than Lance’s mere furrowed brow: Keith hopped away from where he and Lance had drifted closer over the games console, posture rigid. “Sh-Shiro–!” he said. “What … what’re you doing here?”

Lance blinked.

Professor Shirogane gave a lopsided shrug, strong jaw split by a smile. His air was fatherly, calm, and Lance couldn’t understand why Keith looked so shaken to see him. “I dropped off some knickknacks from grandma’s house,” he said, and stepped into the room with confidence. “Thought I’d check in, see how you’re doing.”

Lance rose from the floor at last, bewildered frown flitting from ‘Shiro’ to Keith and back again. On the second pass, the teacher locked eyes with him. His stare was polite yet suspicious and Lance suddenly couldn’t look away, caught like a rabbit in headlights. There was nothing _bad_ in Shiro’s expression, per se, but Lance sure felt like he was being judged. Everything about this situation was incredibly surreal.

The professor inclined his head, questioning. “I know you,” he said, pleasant. “Marine biology, one of Montgomery’s students. You’re the one who launched a firework in a giant fish tank, right?”

Lance let out a high, nervous laugh. It had been an experiment in his first year, and remained one of his most popular YouTube videos to this day. He massaged his throat, muttering about the stunt being his legacy. How was he supposed to know the rocket would blow out the tank’s wall and flood the lab?

Keith reoriented himself in space and time. He stooped to collect the SNES box from the floor, so it wouldn’t get trampled, his head down and shoulders tense. “Shiro,” he said, uncomfortable, “this is Lance, my friend. Lance … Shiro. My brother.”

Lance paused to absorb the revelation. _This_  specimen of masculinity was Keith’s big brother? _Ñoo …_  good god, was Lance glad he hadn’t chosen astrophysics as his major. Class would’ve gotten … complicated, if and when he found the courage to ask Keith out.

Shiro’s smile returned, wider now. “I see,” he said. He uncrossed his arms, and a quiet whirring told Lance the right was a prosthetic. That hand then swept forward, offered out for Lance to shake. After a moment’s hesitation, Lance took it. Yup, fake – the fancy bionic kind, under a flesh-coloured glove. Shiro didn’t address it. “It’s good to meet you, officially. Keith’s mentioned you at home a few times.”

Keith gave his sibling a dangerous glare, knuckles white but pink in the face. “ _Shiro_ ,” he hissed. It was the same tone he’d used with Lance, the day they’d collided in the aisle and scared each other half to death.

Lance tried to keep his grin a respectable size. He liked Keith’s brother.

Shiro stepped back with a chortle, and nodded to the box in Keith’s arms. “A little early for Christmas presents, don’t you think?” he said. “Is this another one with dance mats?”

Lance turned to Keith so fast that something clicked in his neck. “You play dancing games?”

“No!” Keith rushed out. His face twisted. “I-I mean, yes, I do, but – _no_ , Shiro, this one doesn’t–”

From the main room, the chime of a bell signalled the arrival of a new customer. Keith reacted like a sprinter from his mark: he thrust the SNES box hard into Lance’s chest, and fled. Lance clung to the system in surprise, winded by the impact, speechless as Keith barrelled past Shiro and out of the room. In a heartbeat he was gone, retreating into the main shop before he could embarrass himself further.

Lance stared after him, unable to work out what had happened. So, Keith liked DDR. Interesting.

Shiro sighed, apology in the noise while he fixed his coat. The lapels had flipped in the breeze Keith’s departure generated. “He’s pretty good,” he said. “I don’t know why he’s so touchy about it.”

A reply eluded Lance. He stood in silence – a silence that grew more and more awkward the longer he and Shiro breathed the same air alone. Lance’s wide-eyed gaze wandered, roamed the tat-stuffed crates that packed the side room like a landfill. He could still hear Keith’s voice, muffled from somewhere across the store.

“So …” said Shiro. Lance tensed, staring everywhere but at the professor. There was nothing scary about him, but damn if Lance didn’t feel like a teen caught macking on some bodybuilder’s son. “Keith tells me you play guitar?”

Lance gulped. It was prom night all over again, being grilled by his date’s father while she adjusted her hair upstairs. “Not as much as I used to,” he admitted.

The silence swelled, stiff and unpleasant. Lance squeezed the corners of the SNES box, found comfort in the slight give of cardboard under his fingertips. Shiro smelled nice, at least, a sophisticated cologne. _Say something, McClain, say something…._

Shiro cleared his throat. Lance chanced a peek at him to find the man buttoning up his coat, deftly with his left hand. In the movement, Lance spotted his engagement ring. It was nice, shiny silver with a handsome black jewel.

“Well,” said Shiro, airy to no doubt mask his own distress. “I should get going. Enjoy the rest of Thanksgiving break, Lance.”

Throat dry, Lance nodded. “You too,” he managed.

With a parting wave, Shiro turned and strode away. Lance didn’t move, every muscle taut until the professor strolled out through the doorway and disappeared.

Lance unclenched. Well. That was traumatic. He couldn’t imagine how much more painful those sorts of chats might get if he and Keith actually started dating.

He paced a slow circuit of the room, unsure what to do with himself. If he set the SNES down somewhere, a customer might think it an antique for sale. Hm, best not. Lance tucked the box under his arm and squatted to inspect the room’s crates, poking through the junk while he waited for Keith to finish up at the counter.

Minutes later, Lance heard a creak of floorboards. He glanced up, tore himself from a terrifying Barbie doll to watch a familiar mullet lean into view through the door frame. Keith’s expression was guarded, stubborn but still a bit flushed.

“Is he gone?”

He sounded so wary, Lance wanted to grab him in a headlock and ruffle his hair. He settled instead for rising to his feet, and put on his best show of sympathy. “Big brother has left the building,” he said.

Keith sagged. He shuffled into the room, ringing the hem of his shirt in both hands. “Sorry,” he said. “I panicked. I love him, but I hate when he just _shows up_ without warning – like I’m a kid who needs constant supervision.”

Lance flashed his teeth. “And you’re an adult who can cook for yourself without burning the house down,” he said, a throwback to their last in-person chat. He approached the sullen young man serious again while he dragged his heels on the rough carpet. “Hey, dude, listen. There’s nothing wrong with liking dancing games. I like ’em, too, and I’m not just saying that to make you feel better.”

Keith stopped twisting his shirt, and he peered up at Lance through his messy fringe. He didn’t seem convinced, thin nose wrinkled. “You don’t think they’re … for girls?”

The snort that left Lance didn’t match the heartfelt nature of the conversation. He preferred to comfort people with bravado and enthusiasm, over quiet words and tenderness. He could do it, sure – but laughter came easier to him, didn’t leave him feeling as vulnerable and exposed himself. He was raised to be exuberant.

It seemed to help Keith, at any rate. He straightened from his meek hunch, one corner of his mouth lifted by Lance’s contagious mirth.

“No way,” said Lance, and he gestured wide with his free hand. “That arcade downtown, with the DDR machines? I’ll have you know, the high score was held by yours truly for six whole months, until some jerk called Kogane beat me by–”

Realisation stopped him dead.

Lance’s title had been stolen by ‘Kogane’. He didn’t know Keith’s surname, but assumed he’d share his brother’s. Keith Shirogane.  _K-ogane_.

“No way,” Lance breathed. His forehead scrunched down but his voice rose, charged as he put the pieces together. “Fucking _you_?!”

Keith leaned away in alarm. “What?!”

“ _You_ beat my high score!” Lance cried. He crossed his arms without dropping the SNES box, its edges digging into his side through his winter layers. “Oh, it’s _on_ , mullet. Tomorrow, you and me. We’re going to the arcade and we’re having a dance-off.”

For a second, Keith simply stared at him. Something devilish then crossed his face, a clever smirk and cocky eyebrows. “I’m busy tomorrow,” he said, “but, next Saturday, sure. You’d better bring those Super-Ultra martial arts, though. I’m _good_ , McClain.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Lance. He drew himself up, six-foot-and-change of mischief and swagger. “Tell you what. I’ll dig out all the SNES games I brought with me when I moved here. If you beat me, you can keep ’em. And, if I beat you … you have to buy me dinner. Kicking your ass will work up an appetite.”

Keith’s smirk was more humoured than competitive, but he didn’t run from the challenge. “All right,” he said. He tipped his chin, indicating the boxed console under Lance’s arm. “You hang on to that for now, then. Use it to test your carts. I wanna know they all work when you hand them over.”

Lance scoffed. “In your dreams, pretty boy!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Ñoo_ \- Cuban abbreviation of _coño_ , a vulgar equivalent to 'damn'.
> 
> • For the record, Keith's surname in this fic isn't actually Shirogane. It's Kogane, from his biological parents. Lance doesn't know that yet, and mistakenly thinks the high score on the DDR leaderboard is a portmanteau Keith made up. Keith _is_ the one who beat him, though.  
>  • I heard Lance likes sharks? Couldn't find an official source for that, but it's a cute thought!  
> • Y'all ever had buckeye cookies? They're a pain to make, at least for me, but dear god they're good if you like peanut butter and chocolate.  
> • My grandpa used to start and end phone calls without greetings or goodbyes. You can't tell me antisocial Keith wouldn't do the same, getting straight to business and then hanging up once he's said his thing.
> 
> Comments sustain me. Please, feel free to leave feedback - even if it's only a word or two! :)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastypaladin.tumblr.com/)


	4. To Those Who Wait

 

The last week of November flew by in a blur.

Classes resumed, more taxing with finals on the horizon. A fault in the dorm’s washing machines made the stretch …  _hectic_ , to say the least, meant daily trips to a local laundromat for clean clothes. Lance lost a whole afternoon on Skype with his family, tearful after learning his youngest niece had taken her first steps. Furthermore, he made a point to pick up Blue each night and practise. The sessions lengthened as his calluses reformed, skin hardening enough that he could play full songs without pain.

Through it all, he and Keith kept in frequent contact.

Lance didn’t have time to visit the antique store before their arcade trip. He wasn’t sure where Keith stood on spontaneous phone calls, and Keith himself didn’t ring Lance up again, but the texts the two exchanged were many. They vented frustrations and shared funny anecdotes, swapped memes and the occasional selfie to lift the boredom. Lance even taught him a few colourful Cuban phrases, and Keith in turn shared several American curse words Lance somehow hadn’t heard yet. It was nice … the highlight of his day, if he were honest.

They learned a lot about each other, coined in-jokes and sniped taunts for encouragement when college or work got too stressful. Keith had a knack for spurring Lance on – could boost his morale with no more than playful mockery and a wink emoji. Lance appreciated it, more than he knew how to say. He learned that Keith was a high school drop-out, that he liked the outdoors and martial arts and one hundred percent believed in aliens.

Despite their roaring friendship … Lance grew nervous as December approached.

_If I beat you, you have to buy me dinner._

It sounded like a date.

On the night before their contest, Lance sprawled lengthways across the dorm’s couch. Hunk sat beside him in silky pyjamas, his lap a makeshift footstool for his scrawny friend. Both students gripped SNES controllers, testing Lance’s old copy of  _Street Fighter II_  on the console borrowed from Keith.

Lance couldn’t concentrate. He felt like his throat had been filled with bathroom sealant, restricting his airways. The central heating rumbled in the background but his skin bristled in gooseflesh, tense under his nightgown and matcha scrub mask. He’d pinned back his hair with clips, saving the wash for the morning.

He was anxious.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t ask Keith out until they were better friends. On paper, he still hadn’t – but his proposed reward for winning at DDR felt awfully romantic. ‘ _Buy me dinner_ ’? What kind of impulsive idea was that? He’d spoken without forethought, too proud for his own good, and now was second-guessing the whole deal.

The tricky thing was, he and Keith  _were_  better friends now. Asking him out wouldn’t feel rushed at this point. They were familiar and got on well, held each other’s gazes for just a little bit too long. They had chemistry, for sure. That said … Lance didn’t want to pressure the guy into anything. And, most of all, he didn’t want to ‘earn’ romance through some silly wager. Real relationships weren’t prizes won in contests.

All the same, he couldn’t forfeit their dance-off. Hell no! Keith would think him a loser, and it’d be fishy to request a different reward at the last minute. It was just a meal, he told himself. God … even if he’d said ‘lunch’ instead, that would be way better. Why did ‘dinner’ have such sexual connotations?!

For the third time in a row, the TV flashed as Dee Jay combo-kicked Vega to the ground. Lance didn’t notice his character bounce away and fall prone, only stirred when Hunk nudged his bare feet with an elbow.

“Somehow, I thought you’d be better at this,” said Hunk, over Dee Jay’s maraca-shaking victory dance. He’d already removed his bandana for bed, breath minty. Concern sharpened him, cowlicks moving with his raised brow. “You’ve been distracted, all day. Everything all right, man?”

Pensive, Lance traced the seam of his controller. The thing seemed tiny in his grip, though he knew it only felt small because of how much he’d grown since childhood. Hunk watched him think, patient and kind like a big ol’ teddy bear.

“I’m …” said Lance. He flexed his toes, let one arm flop to dangle over the edge of the couch. Gravity pulled the blood into his lowered hand, made his fingers pulse. Hunk might know what to do. “Keith’s meeting me at the arcade tomorrow. We’re gonna have a battle on the DDR machines.”

Hunk made a small ‘oh’ noise, and focused on the TV. Its screen had cycled back to the character select menu; Hunk flicked through the fighters to Chun Li for a change of pace, and sank deeper into the couch. Lance didn’t touch a button, his cursor static as he mentally treaded water.

With his opponent sidetracked, Hunk set down his controller and crossed his legs. The movement dislodged Lance’s feet from his lap, knocked one sliding to the floor. Lance grunted as his heel thudded to the carpet, but his thoughts stayed absent.

“So,” Hunk prompted, “like a date?”

Lance snapped to the present.

He found Hunk looking right at him, bright and expectant. In Pavlovian response, Lance felt his body unclench. He cracked a smirk and raised a foot to Hunk’s cheek, and lightly kicked to turn his head aside. Hunk snorted and batted Lance off, and lowered the game’s volume with the TV remote. Then he laid one thick arm over the back of the sofa, rotating in his seat to better face his friend.

“We’re not dating,” Lance told him. He sat up, folded both legs with his lower back propped against the arm of the couch. “I wanted to get to know him first, before I asked him out. Make sure we play well together, y’know?”

“And, do you?” said Hunk, attentive. He’d only seen his friend and Keith together once, in their first visit to the antique shop. It was … memorable. Lance had practically choked on his own tongue when trying to flirt with him.

Lance rubbed at his throat, nails skirting the edge of his scrub mask. Its fifteen minutes were almost up. “We do,” he said. “We’ve texted every day for almost two weeks, man. It’s been great. We like a lot of the same stuff, and the things we don’t have in common are interesting.”

Hunk nodded, their videogame all but forgotten.

Lance made an empty gesture, animated. “He’s into, like, martial arts and shit,” he said. “He takes sword fighting classes on Thursdays. That’s cool as hell – who uses swords anymore? And yesterday, we spent two hours swapping  _Skyrim_  memes. If that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is.”

Slowly, Hunk sat back. His brow was furrowed in thought, head cocked. “But you’re still not ready to ask him out?”

Lance licked his lips. “I … I don’t know,” he said, and dropped his gaze to his lap. He balled his fists there, insides taut with some unknown emotion. Anticipation, maybe – the sense of standing on a diving tower, ready to spring but struck by sudden awareness of its height. Fun and scary at the same time. “I like him a lot, Hunk. He’s so….”

The music from the TV continued after Lance trailed off, upbeat as he struggled for words. Hunk didn’t rush him, but sat quiet with that gentle smile. His very aura calmed Lance, like a fleece blanket or the smell of a favourite food.

Hunk was the nicest, most easy-to-talk-to person Lance knew. He was a great listener, sympathetic and steady, had supported Lance through many a heartbreak over the years. He kept secrets and always knew what to say, ever-ready with advice despite never having been in a relationship himself.  _A real coach doesn’t play_ , he’d once said; Hunk’s true love was cooking.

Lance knew he could level with him, could bare his soul without judgement. There wasn’t an ounce of malice in Hunk’s body. And, for real? Compared to some of the people Lance had hooked up with in the past, Keith was a saint.

“It’s so easy to laugh with him,” said Lance. He pictured that porcelain face, the awe when they’d talked about old games in the antique store, and his chest swelled. “And when  _he_  laughs, I get all giddy and warm. I think about … about kissing him, and holding his hand. In class sometimes I can’t concentrate because of it, and when I go to the store and he’s not there or busy … I get all sad.”

Realising he’d rambled, Lance gave his controller a flick. The clack of plastic broke the hush of the messy lounge, and Lance swung around to sit up. He hunched, now perched on the edge of the couch with his head down.

“You  _do_  like him a lot,” said Hunk, unmoving beside him. Lance didn’t respond, but took solace in his best friend’s happy tone. “I don’t think I’ve seen you this worked up about a crush. It’s sort of adorable, actually.”

Lance sprang up and strode forward, bare feet muffled on the carpet. Halfway between the couch and the TV stand, he spun back on his heel toward Hunk. The nightgown whirled around his slender frame, settling with a dramatic flair. “I wanna ask him out so bad, man,” he said, “and I’m ninety-seven percent sure he likes me back. I mean, the way he looks at me? I just … I don’t wanna screw it up, by going too fast.”

Movements measured, Hunk turned to sit forward on the couch. He scooted closer to its edge, but didn’t rise like Lance had. Instead, he gripped his knees and drew in a breath. “And you’re telling me, going to the arcade together  _isn’t_  a date?”

Lance grumbled. “We’re having a contest on ancient, grimy dance machines, in a dark corner of the mall where you struggle to hear each other talk,” he said. “Does that really count as a date?”

Hunk shrugged. “Depends how long you stay,” he said, “and what you do afterwards. If you share food and win the other person a prize, then yeah, definitely.”

From across the room, the kitchen timer began to beep. Lance raced to it, swooped to shut off the alarm he’d set for his scrub mask. On his way to the bathroom to wash it off, though, he paused. He gave Hunk a contemplative once-over, prompting a raised eyebrow from his larger housemate.

“Can you help me pick an outfit?” said Lance. Semantics of dating aside, he wanted to make a good impression. Hunk’s bandana may have been questionable, but the man himself had Lance’s trust.

Hunk chuckled, and pried himself from the couch with a huge yawn. “Sure thing, buddy,” he said. “Black’s good for a first date, so how about–”

“It’s not a date, Hunk!”

 

* * *

 

 

The mall had already been decorated for Christmas. Festive lights streaked the bustling space with colour, huge baubles strung from the ceilings. An enormous fake tree towered between the open-plan balconies, aglitter with tinsel, halls filled with the scent of fried food and a crisp winter petrichor. Lance snapped a few pictures for his folks back home, though fought the urge to grab a hot dog. Those things smelled fantastic even when he wasn’t hungry.

Located on the third floor, the arcade didn’t charge traditional quarters for activities. Instead, there was a standard entry fee on the door. Once they paid, a visitor received a magnetic card and could swipe it to play whatever they wanted. Well, almost: the claw cranes weren’t free, and the in-house bar still charged for refreshments. But, otherwise? At six bucks an hour, and ten for the whole day, you couldn’t go wrong.

Lance wore his best shirt, a dark blue button-up with three-quarter sleeves. The black trousers, he’d bought for prom but was yet to outgrow. Hair styled, skin fresh from the matcha, nails filed neat and shoes scrubbed clean.

The effort put into his appearance was somewhat sullied by the rucksack on his back, stuffed with Keith’s SNES and his own collection of game carts. Lance didn’t plan on losing their bet – fuck no – but he was a good enough sport to bring them along anyway, just in case.

Since their stay in the arcade would be timed, Lance didn’t head straight inside once he stepped off the escalator. It’d make more sense to go in  _with_  Keith, and thereby pay and leave at the same time. Even from outside, he could hear the clamour: pounding music, cheers, frantic tunes from pinball machines and shooter booths. Lance dug out his phone to message his not-date, one nervous finger hooked in his stuffy collar. Tides of people flowed around him, nameless strangers out shopping for gifts.

As he scrolled through his list of contacts, Lance happened to glance up. A figure caught his attention ahead, still amid the river of passers-by.

Farther down the walkway, arms crossed where he leaned against the railing, was Keith. Lance almost didn’t recognise him. He’d raked his hair back into a stub of a ponytail, loose strands in his eyes and falling about his neck. He wore a glossy red biker jacket, distressed jeans – skin-tight, oh  _yes_  – and high-top skate shoes. He looked like he’d strolled off the cover of a punk fashion magazine, the goth to Lance’s prep.

Lance’s heart sputtered, cell forgotten in his hand.

Keith seemed to sense his stare. He straightened from the railing and peered about the crowd, frown suggesting he’d been stood there a while. He must’ve gotten here early: Lance was right on time. When Keith spotted him, the grumpiness cleared and he moved to cut through the throng. Lance hurried toward him, tunnel vision, giddy with a pleasant weight in his stomach.

It should have been awkward, stopping short of each other when they’d raced to meet halfway. Somehow, it wasn’t. They dug hands in pockets, shed layers of nerves and stress as easy as breathing.

Keith gave Lance an appreciative once-over. “Wow,” he said, teasing. “Looking sharp, McClain. A button-up? I’m honoured.”

Lance’s voice stuck in his throat. Red really was a good colour on Keith. He composed himself, combed a hand through his fringe in his best imitation of a supermodel. “You should be,” he teased back. With a flourish, he flipped his hair and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Shall we?  _Hello_ , by the way.”

Keith arched an eyebrow. “Right to business,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d be so eager to lose.”

Any attempt at being suave died when Lance sneered. “Oh, you’re gonna eat those words, pretty boy.”

Keith snorted. He said nothing more, but sidestepped around the taller man and strolled toward the arcade. Lance caught a lungful of aftershave as he passed. This would be fun.

At the door, to Lance’s surprise, Keith paid for both of them. Furthermore, he bought day tickets.  _I’m the one who dethroned your old record_ , he reasoned when asked;  _I at least owe you this_. Though taken aback, Lance didn’t complain. He didn’t have much change on him – and something about Keith’s confident walk said he wouldn’t be treating anyone to dinner today.

Inside, they met a wall of noise.

Loud music pounded overhead, EDM bass and percussion. Bleeps from classic game cabinets, childish shrieks, and the melodic, attention-grabbing chimes of slot machines. The sounds smashed together in a chaotic jumble, pulsed beneath low lighting and bursts of colour from assorted booths. The smell of popcorn hung thick in the air, greasy money and body odour.

Lance let his glee shine through. He  _loved_  this place.

He forgot that Keith had been here already. He forgot that they were only friends – and were here for a very serious competition. Lance took his shorter companion by the wrist and tugged him forward, a spring in his step, led him through the masses toward the DDR stations.

The machines were how he remembered. Tall, shiny white, with raised metal platforms and luminous arrow panels. One of the two stations was in use, a lone girl tackling all eight panels in  _Double_  mode. She was pretty good, but Lance hadn’t come here to spectate. He climbed onto the left half of the free machine, and swiped his card to wake the screen from its demo video.

The platform rattled as Keith hopped up to join him, on his right with one hand on the safety bar. Lance hammered buttons to skip the game’s warning messages, already rocking on his heels.

“What d’you think?” he called, over the thrum of the menu music. “Straight to Expert for we dance champions?”

“Let’s warm up on Easy first,” said Keith, meek despite his volume. At Lance’s frown, he shrugged. “Don’t know about you, but I only rolled out of bed half an hour ago. Rather not break my neck in the first two minutes, thanks.”

Lance bowed to his wisdom.

He slapped the option for  _Versus_  mode and stepped back, gesturing for Keith to choose the track. Keith hunched close, close enough that Lance got another hit of his aftershave. He scrolled through quick bursts of music before selecting a Japanese number Lance didn’t know, and they each settle into place on opposite sides of the platform.

To in-game applause and cheering, the announcer declared the start of their first stage. Lance shrugged odd his rucksack while Keith limbered up beside him, exhaled as a countdown filled the screen. Warm-up on easy mode. No big.

The music began.

Though the scrolling arrows gave ample time to prepare, the first step almost caught Lance off-guard. He seized the safety bar behind himself and fell into the rhythm, breath hitched as he stumbled to move his feet. Right, up, down down up – Christ, Keith had picked a fast one for ‘warm up’. Lance wasn’t ready. His shoes squeaked on the panels, the scuffs of rubber on metal drowned in a rush of electronica.

Keith’s side of the screen said he already had a combo bonus, the jerk. Lance glanced at him in a lull in the beat, and saw he wasn’t holding the bar for support. Keith was lithe on his toes, focused, arms swinging low at his sides. Lance straightened to mimic his stance, found it easier to move without his hands anchored back.

“Stop stomping,” Keith half-shouted over the music. Lance hissed to focus, but Keith kept talking. “It slows you down, and you’ll tire yourself out sooner. Stay light on your feet.”

Lance cursed as he missed three steps in a row. “Don’t tell me how to dance!”

It wasn’t the tempo that threw him off-balance. Nor was it the anime-style music video behind the prompt arrows, or the passers-by who paused to watch the young men compete.

It was Keith.

His movements were graceful to the point of distracting. He twisted his hips to the melody, zipped-up jacket pulling taut as he swayed. That tiny ponytail bounced in step; its elastic wouldn’t stay in much longer, more strands shaken loose with every impact. Lance wished he had horse blinders on, or something –  _anything_  to keep his eyes forward and off his rival.

How could anyone be so attractive without effort?

The song was over before Lance knew it. Thanks to Keith’s flawless performance, they’d scraped enough points to advance to the next stage. Lance wiped his brow as discretely as possible, sweating more from awe and lust than exertion.

For a myriad of reasons, he was in over his head.

Keith swooped forward as the in-game cheers rose again, and worked the controls to skip through the results screen. He turned, cheeks dusted pink from the exercise. “You wanna pick the next song?” he said, and flashed a roguish smirk. “Something a bit slower, maybe?”

Lance shoved his sleeves up over his elbows, ready to throw down. “Screw that,” he scoffed. He tossed his arms wide, answered Keith’s taunt with bravado. “C’mon, mullet. I’ve got it now. Pick a  _real_  tune.”

Keith’s smile was dangerous as he chose their second track.

A group of youths wandered past. Lance ignored them, tuned out the din of nearby entertainment with sheer grit. He gave himself a mental slap, concentrated. If he lost from tripping over his damn crush, he’d be pissed.

Meanwhile, Keith appeared to realise his ponytail was doomed. He retied his hair as the next stage loaded, pulled the front up and out of his eyes into some silly bastardisation of a topknot. It stuck up like the head of a paintbrush – practical, but ridiculous. Lance thought he’d burst a lung from holding in laughter.

They danced for what felt like hours.

Lance took Keith’s advice, stayed light on his feet once he got into the groove. His scores climbed, fewer fumbled steps on the songs he knew, but he still couldn’t quite reach Keith’s level. It was maddening. The rush of endorphins curbed any real anger, though, made him whoop instead of swear in the cool-downs between rounds. It was impossible not to admire him.

Keith was just _that good_.

His compact frame made him more nimble than Lance – more agile on shorter, stronger legs. Lance wouldn’t call himself out-of-shape, exactly, but he didn’t take sword fighting classes. Keith was totally focused, no flair or showmanship, quick reflexes and precision. As they advanced through higher difficulty settings, and the steps sped up, it almost looked like he was floating over the arrows. He was skilled enough to glance away from the screen every now and then, shooting Lance pleased looks or little breathless laughs that made his opponent stumble.

His reign seemed certain.

While Lance chose the track for their final stage, Keith rocked his weight to stay loose. “You keeping up over there?” he called. He’d removed his jacket by this point, revealing a plain dark tee, his exposed forehead glistening from the workout.

Lance had likewise popped his collar, ragged at the edges. He could feel his heartbeat in every digit, amped-up and invigorated. “Prepare to be dethroned, drop-out,” he said. He confirmed his choice and slinked back into place, smug. “This is my jam, dude. Better get your wallet ready.”

Keith rolled a shoulder in its socket. “We’ll see.”

Lance was confident as the countdown began. Their competition had gathered a small crowd of spectators, but he paid them no mind. The girl on the machine next to them had long stepped down, upstaged.

This was the final round, his last chance. Lance had picked the very song he’d once topped the leaderboard with, a tune he’d danced to countless times and knew all the steps for. If he couldn’t beat Keith on this one, he never would.

“Scared?” taunted Keith.

“Let’s go!”

The steps came hard and fast, struck to each note of the intro. The combatants moved in sync, hovered over long  _Freeze_  arrows while the music swelled around them. It was brutal, electrifying – and still climbing. In his periphery, Lance saw Keith’s fists clench.

The beat dropped.

They slammed their hands down, dived to pound all eight panels at once. Back up in a blink, deaf to the cheers of their audience – twisting jumps, frantic and frenzied, four feet skimming the arrows in some manic river dance. Lance found the insane pace easier than the slower songs, each move blending into the next. He saw Keith’s combo break and whooped again, lost in the rhythm.

Lance’s performance was far from faultless. He missed enough steps to fall a few hundred points behind his rival, but … honestly?

He didn’t care.

He’d not had this much fun in a long time, bouncing about like an idiot with Keith. It was two and a half minutes of pure adrenaline, of freedom, of egging each other on and winded laughter–

–and then it was over, one last  _thud_  as they both nailed the final jump.

Lance doubled over with an exhausted cry, and Keith reversed into the safety barrier to catch his breath. Applause broke out around them, adults and children alike praising their performance.

There was an immediate change in Keith’s demeanour, as if he hadn’t noticed the crowd until now.

Lance straightened up. Keith had looked  _young_ when engrossed in the game, relaxed, like he didn’t have a care in the world. That was gone now, replaced by something awkward and hostile under the watch of so many strangers. From his stance, Lance wouldn’t be shocked if Keith snapped at them – asking if they had nought better to do than stand around and stare.

Come to think of it … he’d seemed pretty annoyed outside, too, until he spotted Lance. Did he dislike being in public?

To catch his attention, Lance gave Keith’s shoulder a light knock with his knuckles. “Respect, man,” he wheezed out. “Holy crow … I’m done. You win.”

It took Keith a moment to process his words. He softened again under Lance’s gaze, and crossed his arms with a chortle. “You’re not so bad, yourself,” he said. “Maybe next time, McClain.”

Lance beamed at him. Better. No murderous scowls at strangers, thanks.

They helped each other down from the platform, shaky from fatigue, and Lance was pleased to find Keith sweating as much as he was. Nobody was perfect, after all. Lance grabbed his rucksack and Keith his jacket, and they ambled over to the bar for a refreshing soda.

For a while, they wandered the arcade without a plan. To Lance’s delight, Keith didn’t remove his disaster of a topknot. The sight of that ridiculous hairstyle more than made up for his defeat at DDR.

They took turns at a Skee-Ball lane, where Lance was able to win back some of his pride. He spent his earned tickets on a cute alien phone charm, which he gave to Keith without a second thought. His own reward came in a show of rippling back muscles, when Keith kicked his ass at a test-your-strength tower. Worth it.

“Those things’re rigged, you know,” Lance explained loudly, after his own swing sent the puck less than halfway up to the bell. “They’re on timers, so only a few people can win on any given day. It’s how they stay in business.”

Keith grinned around his lollypop. “Yeah, sure.”

The arcade was even noisier than when they’d arrived, disjointed announcements and cacophonous music. It was also heaving with people, as could be expected of a Saturday afternoon. Keith acted more comfortable when engaged in conversation, so Lance made it his mission to keep talking as they explored. Anything and everything, half-shouted nonsense to keep his friend upbeat. His grandparents would’ve been proud: endless chatter was something Cubans excelled at. They steered clear of the fortune wheels, and paused to let two kids exit a machine ahead of them.

Lance studied the attraction. It was a shooting game, one of those enclosed booths with prop guns and a bench to sit on. Lance grabbed Keith’s sleeve at the sight of it.

“Ooh, ooh, let’s do  _that_ ,” he said.

Keith wilted. “I’m no good at shooters….”

“Perfect, I can teach you!”

Without another word, Lance dragged him forward. Keith didn’t protest, amused by the taller man’s enthusiasm as they climbed into the chamber.

It was dull inside, like the cabin of a truck, the glow of the monitor reflected in the textured metal floor. Lance threw himself down onto the bench, while Keith perched with more dignity, the on-screen demo cut short by a swipe of Lance’s card.

“Okay,” he said, and seized the closest of the gun-shaped controllers. They were large and of decent weight, shapes reminiscent of  _Mass Effect_  rifles. Well-versed in these types of games, Lance gripped the prop expertly and spoke over the instructional video. “Hold it like this – yeah, with the stock against your shoulder. That’s good. You reload by shooting off-screen, and duck in cover by turning it sideways. It’s co-op, so we work together to take out the bad guys. Got it?”

“Yeah,” said Keith. He didn’t sound so sure, less certain than when he’d been on the dance platform. Lance found it sweet, and wondered if  _this_  should’ve been their competition instead.

For how coordinated he was with his feet, Keith had terrible aim.

He only survived the first wave of CG robots because of Lance, who blew away multiple foes before they could reach his character. The second wave was harder, introducing enemy grenades that briefly whited-out the screen, and the third brought in helicopters with rockets. Lance sniggered when Keith rose from the bench, as if he thought standing up would make him a better shot.

For the third time that minute, Lance saved his neck by sniping an oncoming missile. “ _Take cover_ , will you?!”

“I know!”

Halfway through the fourth wave, Keith’s avatar went down. Lance couldn’t save him in time, busy with a cyborg dog that had latched onto his own character’s arm. Keith plopped back onto the bench with a sigh, and shoved his prop rifle into its slot. “Told you I’m bad at these,” he said.

Lance didn’t answer, in-the-zone as he fended off the robot horde by himself.

Despite mounting difficulty, Lance did well; through precise shots and timed reloads, he lasted five more rounds of onslaught. Keith gave moral support, cheered him on as if watching his favourite team in a soccer final. Eventually, though, the enemy’s sheer number overwhelmed Lance and a cold  _GAME OVER_  filled the monitor.

“That’s so stupid!” he cried, tossing up a hand. “Three of them threw shit at me at once – how are you supposed to survive that?!”

Keith’s gloved palm on his shoulder snapped Lance from his rage. “Probably with a partner,” he said, apologetic, and Lance deflated. He wasn’t wrong. Oh well. Keith then jerked his head, indicating the open side of the booth. “Let’s grab a bite to eat. I’m starving.”

Reminded of food’s existence, Lance noticed an ache in his own stomach. A glance at his phone told him they’d spent over four hours in the arcade. Yup, time for lunch – well, ‘dinner’ would be more appropriate. They’d have to hurry to beat the flood of hungry rush-hour commuters. He returned his fake rifle to its slot and stood, almost headbutting the cabin roof in his haste to follow Keith out of the booth.

They hopped down, back into the throngs of people. Lance assumed they’d just buy a snack at the bar – but Keith veered in the other direction, briskly toward the arcade’s exit. Intrigued, Lance kept quiet as he tailed his companion past a wall of crane games. Keith donned his jacket and shoved open the main door, and they left the building in single-file.

Lance’s ears throbbed with the change in volume. The mall was by no means quiet, but the difference between it and a backdrop of slot machines was striking. Keith stopped right outside; Lance slipped into his backpack once he caught up, and peered around for nearby restaurants. “What d’you fancy, O Dance Champ?”

To Lance’s disappointment, Keith plucked the tie from his hair. His fringe flopped limply forward, a kink in the mullet where sweat had soaked in around the elastic. “Fast food," he said, then grimaced, “or would you rather have something healthier?”

“Fast food’s great,” said Lance.  _And cheap_ , he added in afterthought. He’d be paying for himself, after all. “There’s a decent burger place downstairs, with tables for if we wanna eat in.”

“Sounds good.”

As they descended, following the scent of flame-grilled beef, the two discussed burger preferences. It became a debate when Keith voiced his hatred of pretzel buns, one that continued to rage as they entered the bright-lit eatery. They stopped arguing long enough to order, with Lance swapping his standard bun for a pretzel roll as if to prove a point. Two minutes’ wait and they collected their trays, and crossed to an empty table between the left wall a  _wet floor_  sign. The red plastic seats were hard and uncomfortable, but that was the real price of a low-cost meal.

Lance felt no guilt tucking into his curly fries. He imagined he’d burned enough calories today to safely eat nothing but junk for a week. For some reason, he’d expected Keith to have a more modest appetite than himself – but the double cheeseburger and milkshake on Keith’s tray said otherwise. Lance wished he’d also bought one of the latter, instead of juice. The thick, creamy cocoa blend looked like something you’d find posted on Instagram with a sepia filter.

Keith must’ve caught him staring at the drink. Halfway through their sandwiches, he offered the straw of his shake to Lance. Hunk’s words about sharing food flashed through Lance’s mind, made him flush despite the chill of the chocolatey sip.

Could Keith also sense how much this felt like a date?

Conversation failed to pick up again as they tore through their meals. A backdrop of radio pop hits and strangers’ chatter filled the silence somewhat, but made it no less awkward. Lance became vividly aware of his height as they ate, flinching each time his knees knocked Keith’s under the table. Why did it get so awkward, all of a sudden? Was the pretzel bun too far a joke? Keith himself kept his head down, stirring his ketchup with a fry for an unreasonable amount of time.

“So …” Lance tried, anxious. He studied the burger wrappers between them, picked clean of melted cheese and sesame seeds. “You, uh … you live with Professor Shirogane?”

Keith’s stiff posture eased a fraction. “It’s weird to hear him called that,” he said. He sat back, and just like that Lance could breathe again. “But yeah, I do. Shiro and his fiancé. It’s … interesting. Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t be there at all.”

Lance raised his juice, likewise relaxing in his chair. He gave himself a proverbial pat on the back – and then immediately ruined it. “Why not move back in with your parents?”

Keith dropped his stare to his sauce-drowned fries. At once, Lance knew he’d said something wrong. He lowered his drink, heart in his mouth, no longer hungry.

“They’re …” said Keith. His features twisted in a way Lance didn’t like, eyes elusive. “Shiro’s not my biological brother.”

Lance froze. Oh.  _Oh_. “Sorry, I–”

“Didn’t know,” Keith cut across him. His lips were thinner than normal, a steely line. He smiled, but it was cold. Joyless. “It’s fine. Forget it.”

Silence swelled again, barbed and painful, undermined by titters from another table. Lance didn’t know what to say. What  _did_  one say, after a blunder like that? He traced the rim of his juice bottle subconsciously.  _Way to go, McClain, let’s end today with a sour taste in the mouth._

Across the desk, Keith heaved a sigh and pushed his tray away from himself. There wasn’t much food left on it, and Lance would have complimented him if his nerves weren’t so raw.

“They took me in when I was twelve,” said Keith. He raked his fringe aside, frown locked on the scuffed corner of their table. “Shiro and his parents, I mean. He still lived with them at the time, helping out while he studied for his Master’s. When he moved out, I was old enough to go with him.”

Lance weighed his response delicately before he voiced it. “Can I ask why you didn’t stay with his parents?”

Keith shrugged. “I owed him,” he said, and shook his head. He rolled an imaginary grain between his thumb and forefinger, a nervous tic. “I had a lot of anger when I was little, got into fights with other kids. It got me kicked out of school. Shiro … Shiro home-taught me instead. He convinced me to see a councillor about my temper. And he … he helped me accept my sexuality.”

Lance nodded. He didn’t know the man himself, but it was clear from the way Keith spoke that Shiro was a great father figure. Brother figure? Lance scooted closer in his chair, squeezed his juice bottle with both hands. “Sounds like he’s exactly who you needed.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Keith’s features. His grey-blue eyes then grew wide, and he went ramrod straight in his seat. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to … I’m not normally –  _dammit_ , McClain!”

Lance tensed. “W-what?!”

Keith clamped a hand over his own face. “How do you do that?” he whined, muffled behind his palm. Lance glanced around to check for eavesdroppers, concerned and confused. “You – it’s like talking to a fucking therapist.”

It clicked.

Keith didn’t discuss his past or home life, but he’d opened right up to Lance without realising. Lance sank back in his hard chair, as breathless as when they’d first stepped off the DDR machines. When it became clear that Keith wouldn’t emerge from behind his shield, Lance tried to steer things back to normal with a cheesy one-liner.

“I guess I make people feel safe,” he said, and stole one of Keith’s leftover fries from his sauce pot. It was soggy and tasted of pure vinegar, but the glare Keith gave him over the edge of his glove was worth it.

Banter became easy again. They talked for over an hour – about Lance’s classes, the latest Marvel movie, a delivery of clocks Coran was expecting on Monday. It felt like they did this every Saturday, like they’d known each other forever and were catching up after summer break. By the time the dregs of Keith’s milkshake devolved into sludge, Lance realised he’d missed his last bus home.

He toyed with his phone, reluctant to bother Hunk for a lift. Resigned to walking, then, he knew he’d have to leave now in order to get back before darkness fell. Lance handed Keith his rucksack of winnings from their dance contest, and told him to return the empty bag next time they saw each other.

“I can give you a ride, if you want,” said Keith, startled when Lance stood.

Lance paused, in the process of stretching his legs. “A ride?”

Keith rose from his chair but didn’t step out from behind the table, hesitating. “On my bike.”

A strange thrill swept through Lance. So, the leather jacket wasn’t just for show. “Something tells me you’re not talking about a pushbike,” he said.

Keith beamed.

 

* * *

 

 

Lance and Hunk’s dorm wasn’t far from the local library. With that monument as a waypoint, Lance followed his not-date to the mall’s car park and watched him straddle the sexiest motorcycle in the lot.

It was a mean, sporty, aggressive-looking vehicle, with a low suspension and dual cannon-style exhaust pipes. A matte black finish, flat handle bars, stylish and sleek. Bits of white and yellow coloured the fairings, a red leather seat and reflective blue back-box. If a bike could look rebellious, this was it. Keith swung one leg over the beast like it was nothing, and offered his helmet to Lance with steady hands.

Lance didn’t take it. “Is it … safe?”

“Roads are dangerous no matter what vehicle you use,” said Keith, earnest. “But, I promise, I’m careful. You trust me, right?”

Lance nodded. "Absolutely."

As he climbed aboard and donned the helmet, Lance was told to put his arms around Keith’s waist for stability. Though flustered, he obeyed. The motorbike wasn’t designed for more than one rider; he felt like a baby koala clinging to its mother, front pressed flush to Keith’s spine. Lance was unsure what made him more nervous – the thought of skidding out and getting tossed into a ditch, or the fact he was practically spooning Keith right now.

The vehicle shuddered to life under them, growled with power that made Lance’s thighs tingle. Keith checked that his passenger was comfy and secure before releasing the brake, then rolled out of the parking lot and onto the road.

Years ago, predating the age of  _Mario Cart_ , the arcade back home had hosted one of those games where you sat on a fake motorbike and raced. Lance had spent many hours on it, had gotten a real feel for leaning into corners and such.

The real thing felt nothing like that.

Wind bit through his clothes, whipped Keith’s hair against Lance’s visor where they hunched together. Streets streaked by in a blur of colour – not so fast that Lance couldn’t read passing store signs, but quick enough to raise his pulse. The game hadn’t replicated the pull of gravity in turns, the ferocity of a snarling engine between one’s legs. Lance squeezed Keith’s middle until the initial fear ebbed, lurching panic replaced by wonder and adrenaline as they roared across the city. The quick rasps of his of breaths filled his helmet like static, fogging the plastic in the winter chill.

Keith’s phone didn’t have a map function – or any apps at all, for that matter – but he knew the city well enough to find the library without aid from Google. They pulled over at the curb, and Lance flipped his visor to list directions for the rest of the journey. It wasn’t far; less than two more minutes of driving later, Keith slowed his bike to a halt outside the dorm and killed the engine.

It took Lance a moment to remember how to use his legs. He dismounted and tugged the helmet off his head, hair crushed to his skull. He ruffled the mess into some semblance of order, and turned to where Keith was also climbing off the cooling bike.

The sun had set, street painted in frosty greys and blues. Keith’s exposed skin was pink from the cold, dark locks windswept and tangled. His small, sincere grin caught the mellow glow of streetlamps; he took the helmet from Lance and hooked it onto the handlebars, then leaned back against the machine with his thumbs in his pockets.

“I had fun today,” he said, voice soft. “I don’t normally do stuff like that. Days out, you know? Just … relaxing.”

Lance held his gaze. His fingers buzzed, from the thrill of the ride and something like anticipation. To shake it, he puffed up in a show of confidence he didn’t feel.

“Dude, I am the master of relaxing,” he said. “If you ever need to get your chill on, hit me up. I know a great day spa – mani-pedis, massages, facials, you name it. You’ll be so de-stressed, you’ll ascend to the astral plane.”

Keith laughed through his nose. “I’ll think of you, the next time I have to clean up an exploded fountain pen.”

He sounded so sincere that Lance’s brain went blank.

Warmth swelled in his core, fuzzy and bright, made his heart skip like a shot of dopamine. He hooked a hand around his nape, no words on his tongue. No clever reply came to him, only an  _urge_  – to step closer, to touch, to hold. It had felt good to hug him from behind, on the ride here. His sightline fell to Keith’s curved mouth and Lance suddenly wanted to know what it felt like, if it tasted of chocolate milkshake and fries and sugary orange from the lollipop.

He only realised he was staring when Keith’s smile faded.

It became something vulnerable, something cautious and uncertain. When Lance froze up, a fox in headlights, that familiar intensity returned to Keith’s features. His brow knitted with resolve and – before Lance could step back and bid him goodnight – he seized Lance’s collar and yanked him forward.

Keith’s mouth did, in fact, taste of milkshake.

The kiss was uncoordinated, unskilled, but forceful enough that Lance felt the wall of Keith’s teeth behind his sealed lips. It didn’t come as a shock that he put as much energy into it as he did stocking shelves and dancing. What  _was_  a shock was the gloved hand that found a home in Lance’s hair, and the hot exhale against his face. Lance stood stunned, eyes wide open, unable to think.

Then he processed what was happening, and melted into the moment.

He let his eyes fall shut, threaded thin fingers into Keith’s dark curls. The locks were soft, a little dry, fluffier than he expected. They smelled like the arcade, with a hint of tea tree underneath. His nails scraped skin through the mop, drew a tiny noise out of the shorter man. Lance’s shirt pulled tight as Keith fisted his hands in the fabric, pushing harder with his unspoken consent.

Abruptly, Keith broke away. He didn’t let go but ducked his head so Lance couldn’t read him, doing that nervous motion again with Lance’s collar between one thumb and forefinger.

“Sorry,” he said, almost inaudible on the quiet street. Lance’s pride surged upon noting his wrecked tone. “I just … I’ve wanted to do that all day. Real bad.”

Lance held him by the upper arms, rubbed soothing circles into the leather of his jacket. “I could tell,” he teased.

Keith raised his chin. He looked worried, in that stubborn way of his, flicking over Lance’s expression. Searching, Lance realised, for a negative reaction under the glow of the streetlamps. “I know you were ‘apprehensive’,” said Keith, guarded. “It wasn’t … I shouldn’t’ve–”

“It’s okay,” Lance interrupted. He eased Keith’s surprise with a chuckle, and took a slow step back. Still reeling from pleasure, he rubbed his neck where Keith’s touch had raised his skin into gooseflesh. “I  _was_ apprehensive. But if, y’know … if you wanna kiss me again, on a regular basis … that’d be cool.”

Keith squinted at him. He crossed his arms, cocked his weight like he hadn’t just tried to suck Lance’s soul out through his mouth. “Is  _that_  your way of asking me out?” he said, deadpan. “Wow. No wonder you were scared.”

Lance’s face burned in the evening air. “Do you wanna date, or not?!”

Keith stroked his chin as if indecisive, but the wicked arch to his brow said otherwise.

For his mockery, Lance gave Keith’s shoulder a light-hearted shove. Keith let himself stumble, down off the curb and toward his motorbike. He collected the helmet from the handlebars, tossed and caught it once, and gave Lance a calm, honest nod.

“Okay,” he said. Blunt, no-nonsense. A very  _Keith_  response.

Lance didn’t breathe. “‘Okay’?” he echoed. “So we’re, like … a couple now?”

“I’m told that’s how it works, yeah.”

Lance didn’t have it in him to be offended at Keith’s clueless act. “Neat.”

They said their goodnights. The second kiss was shorter than the first, more precise now that Lance was expecting it. They parted with an unspoken promise of more, warm and embarrassed and gleeful all at once. Somehow Lance found his way up the path to the front of the dorm building, where he paused in the entrance to wave Keith off.

As he donned his helmet and revved the bike to life, Keith called out. “ _¡Chao pescao!_ ”

A grin erupted on Lance’s face, and in that moment he’d never been happier. Keith’s pronunciation was awful, voice cracking, and Lance couldn’t help but laugh at the smile in the cutesy goodbye. “ _¡Y a la vuelta, picadillo!_ ” he yelled back.

With that Keith rode away, tearing off down the road in a roar of gasoline.

Spirit lighter than air, Lance let himself into the building and drifted to the elevator. He ascended in a state of bliss, familiar enough with the Walk of Shame that he didn’t need to think about his route. It was autopilot: creep to apartment, key in lock, shuffle through. 

On the floor inside the doorway, a pair of huge boots told him Hunk was around. Lance shut the door behind himself, and leaned his back against it. He smiled to no-one, alone in the entrance hall, already replaying the outing’s highlights in his head. He could still taste milkshake.

 _Qué día_. What a day.

“Hey, man,” came a voice from the main room.

Slowed by his joyous daze, Lance glanced up to find his roommate sprawled on the couch. Hunk lay with his laptop balanced atop his stomach, one earbud in, a spaghetti-stained bowl on the coffee table beside him. When Lance wandered over to perch on the arm of the sofa, Hunk set the computer aside and sat up.

“How was your date?”

Lance’s sigh said it all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“¡Chao pescao! / ¡Y a la vuelta, picadillo!”_ – Cuban version of ‘later alligator’. Literally “Goodbye fish! / Next time, minced meat!” 
> 
> • I was halfway through this chapter when the game show clip aired, and had already written Keith with a ponytail. I couldn't _not_ include the ridiculous topknot ... thing.  
>  • The two DDR songs I based the dance scene on are now permanently burned into my brain. [You're](https://youtu.be/xIiTSRrVtU4) [welcome](https://youtu.be/8BY06_o_ytg).  
> • Looks like our boys are dating now. Hurray!
> 
> Comments make me happy. Please, feel free to leave feedback - even if it's only a word or two! :)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://toastypaladin.tumblr.com/)


End file.
